Grief should come with picture books.
I order all these books that come with tiny print and no pictures.
I want to throw them against the wall.
I’m really just trying to understand.

I look up at the last of the Aspen leaves,
the leaves I was convinced were speaking to me since that day in September.

How will we communicate now?
11:11s?
Dreams?
This tiny fucking print in these long books?

I picked up the coffee mug she drank from that last morning in Guelph.
The sourdough starter in the refrigerator.
The shopping list with Earl Gray spelled wrong.
A Coffee Crisp candy wrapper in the trash.

And I wonder how its possible that we live in a world,
where she wakes up,
has her tea,
talks to her son,
volunteers at the mission,
walks toward the grocery store with her husband,
and
is
no
longer
here.

And
we
have
to
keep
going.

(And pretend to know how.)

I’ll take that picture book
or those answers
or a map
or really whatever you got,
if you can find them.