The Wall

I vacuumed today and got pissed off. Not because of the vacuum. Because it was one more ordinary thing I used to hate doing, and now it has this extra layer of bullshit attached to it. Every household task feels like proof of something. Proof she’s not here. Proof I’m still here. Proof this whole machine keeps running whether I want it to or not. Grief is weirdly domestic. It lives in trash day. In permission slips. In the grocery list. In the empty side of the bed. In the fact that nobody knows where the hell that one thing is supposed to go except the person who died. You’d think the big moments would be the worst. Sometimes they are. But a lot of the time it’s the endless parade of regular life that wears me down. Sweep. Mop. Vacuum. Dishes. Repeat. I’m not saying I can’t do it. I’m saying I resent the shit out of having to do all of it while carrying this.