The Wall

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. I was not prepared to become the only adult who remembers how the whole family machine worked. I still reach for my phone before I remember there is no one to send the stupid little update to.