The Wall

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. 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 house sounds wrong without her footsteps finding me. 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 was not prepared to become the only adult who remembers how the whole family machine worked.