The bed still looks like a sentence missing half its meaning. 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. Her coat is still where she left it because moving it feels like agreeing with reality. I miss being the second person in a private language. The house sounds wrong without her footsteps finding me. 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.
For home