We had just begun finding our rhythm again.

Then one wet Thursday afternoon, another car crossed the median.

And suddenly there was no rhythm left.

For months afterward, I kept Grace and Noah’s bedroom doors shut.

I couldn’t stand to see inside.

Every open doorway felt like something waiting to swallow me.

So I closed them.

At first, I thought closed doors would make things easier.

They didn’t.

Closed doors have weight too.

They sat in the hallway like markers for everything I had lost.

Every time I walked past them, I felt myself closing those doors all over again.

Then one morning, without really deciding to, I opened Grace’s.

Her gray sweatshirt was still hanging over the back of her desk chair.

The one she wore constantly.

The cuff was frayed from the way she used to chew it when she was nervous.

I couldn’t move it.