This will always be the day the sun shone, the son murdered, the world outside your door kept spinning without you. Impossibly, we are left here hundreds of days since July 10th received its brutal, sacred meaning.
“Did Poppi kill the bear or save it?,” asks my son months after my dad was buried.
Because for a while I was with & never without her. For a good bit my mom was fully, really here.
I tap the fridge door closed with my right foot while completing a 92-degree turn to pour and place apple juice into a sippy cup and onto a table. My husband swivels precisely to my left, avoiding a collision, plate of mac’n’cheese balanced atop bowl of grapes. Three steps back he takes. Two-and-a-half forward for me. …
And this was what Christmas was. And this was what a family looked like. And it would take some time before I knew anything different and concluded that different wasn’t better at all.