People keep saying I am doing great like they cannot see the ash on me. 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. Her coat is still where she left it because moving it feels like agreeing with reality. 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. The kids ask normal questions in voices that make my ribs hurt.
The Wall
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