The Wall

Being left to carry both grief and logistics feels like a cruel joke with no audience. 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. I can keep the bills paid or I can breathe deeply, but not both on the same day. I know all the account numbers now and I would trade every one of them for one more boring Tuesday. I miss being the second person in a private language. I am angry at every healthy person talking to me about efficiency. Some nights I replay the last normal day because it is the only place my body still believes in.