The bed still looks like a sentence missing half its meaning. I still reach for my phone before I remember there is no one to send the stupid little update to. I hate how much of love becomes passwords after death. The kids ask normal questions in voices that make my ribs hurt. I can keep the bills paid or I can breathe deeply, but not both on the same day. Sometimes grief looks like school pickup and pretending my face is not breaking in public.
For home