People keep saying I am doing great like they cannot see the ash on me. 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. I can keep the bills paid or I can breathe deeply, but not both on the same day. I am angry at every healthy person talking to me about efficiency.
The Wall
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