Widowhood is a thousand practical tasks with a scream under them. I still reach for my phone before I remember there is no one to send the stupid little update to. The grocery store is full of items that still belong to a life with two adults making plans. I hate how much of love becomes passwords after death. The kids ask normal questions in voices that make my ribs hurt. Sometimes grief looks like school pickup and pretending my face is not breaking in public. Her coat is still where she left it because moving it feels like agreeing with reality.
The Wall
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