An Honest Day

It’s a day like any other day.

I plan this week’s meals, make a grocery list and finish my coffee.

I put on galoshes and drive to the store, 10 miles in the rain. 

I check the eggs, weigh the apples, and decide against salmon. Maybe next week.

It’s a day like any other day. Only sadder.

After I put away the groceries

and drive 14 miles to the gym, I

work up a sweat and wait for the endorphins to kick in.

They don’t always, despite the hype.

I get home and pull the condolence cards out of the mailbox.

Reading through them makes me feel better and
Worse at the same time. 

So I cry.

I cry and wonder how my daughter-in-law is and 
what my grandchildren are doing.

I cry like I’ve done nearly every day for the past

41 days since my son took his last breath,

Since I felt his skin grow cool under my hand,

Since I kissed his forehead for each of his grandparents, his uncles, his aunts,

I cry like I’ve done nearly every day for the past

41 days since I finally let go of hope.

Crying is now part of my daily routine.

I take time for it.

It’s a day like any other day, only sadder.

And dinner still needs to be made.