The Wall

I hate that grief can turn a recipe card into a wound. 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 holidays are quieter in a way that sounds insulting. Cleaning out the house felt like translating a language made of receipts, sweaters, and unfinished lists. I was not expecting to miss the annoying reminders, the repeated stories, the ordinary checking in. I still almost call when something breaks or when I finally understand a joke they would have loved. People think adulthood prepares you for this and I want to ask them prepared in what sense. People think adulthood prepares you for this and I want to ask them prepared in what sense.