Widowhood is a thousand practical tasks with a scream under them. 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. Sometimes grief looks like school pickup and pretending my face is not breaking in public. I miss being the second person in a private language. I was not prepared to become the only adult who remembers how the whole family machine worked. I know all the account numbers now and I would trade every one of them for one more boring Tuesday.
For my person