Strange Rooms

This entry is part 8 of 8 in the series Life’s Inevitability

I text your friend to let them know they can still come by on the day you both had arranged. It'll be three days after you died. My arm's killing me. I need to get that seen to. We've cleaned a bit more, but I'm still ceaselessly lost in my own home.

Waiting for OK

This entry is part 6 of 8 in the series Life’s Inevitability

I also knew that you wouldn't stop worrying about me. Worry about leaving me in a financially bad place. Worry about my having to do as you did when da died- going through his things, donating clothes, etc. You'd tried to get friends to 'shop in your closet.' Worry about what this was doing to me. The same worry that's been a throughline since the day you found out you were goan to be my mother. I tell you to not worry; that I'll be fine. As I sit there, moving your hair just so, I realize that's what you were waiting for, my 'It's OK.'

This is in case you stumble here and it's not immediately known what you find yourself reading; I wanted to warn you, in case you're in a place right now that makes it unhealthy for you to read it.