The Wall

I’m amazed at how much grief hides inside ordinary seasons. Warm fall days used to mean lazy afternoons, family stuff, that specific quality of light she loved. Now they still mean that, except all of it arrives carrying a second layer: the knowledge that this weather once belonged to us in a different way. Same with Christmas lights. Same with summer evenings. Same with the first cool day, the first snowfall, the smell of cut grass. People think memory is mostly visual. I think grief proves it’s atmospheric. The whole world becomes tagged.