The Wall

I hate that grief can turn a recipe card into a wound. Cleaning out the house felt like translating a language made of receipts, sweaters, and unfinished lists. The voicemail is so short and still too heavy to keep in my pocket. I was not expecting to miss the annoying reminders, the repeated stories, the ordinary checking in. The holidays are quieter in a way that sounds insulting. I miss being someone’s child in a room without having to say it out loud.