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. I hate how much of love becomes passwords after death. I can keep the bills paid or I can breathe deeply, but not both on the same day. 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. 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. The old version of me is buried in this somewhere too.