In Noah’s room, three library books still sat beside his bed.
Three years overdue.
Sometimes I imagined the ridiculous fines piling up forever.
I still couldn’t return them.
Returning them felt too much like admitting he would never finish them.
People told me grief changes.
They were right.
Eventually, it stopped flattening me every morning.
It became quieter.
Something I learned to fold up and carry around where no one else could see it.
I became very good at appearing normal.
I could smile at the cashier in the grocery store.
I could answer, “I’m fine, thanks,” when someone asked how I was.
I could sit through meetings and nod at appropriate moments.
Nobody knew what I was carrying.
But the house knew.
The house remained painfully quiet.
I had always believed homes were supposed to be noisy.
Kids arguing about the television.
Feet running down hallways.
