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. People think adulthood prepares you for this and I want to ask them prepared in what sense. I was not expecting to miss the annoying reminders, the repeated stories, the ordinary checking in. Every family story has a blank line in it now. The voicemail is so short and still too heavy to keep in my pocket.
The Wall
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