When you lose someone, time does a funny thing.
Days collapse together until everything feels like one endless morning where you wake up hoping for a different reality.
It’s been three months since my husband’s funeral, but sometimes I still expect his boots by the door. I still make two cups of coffee, and every night I triple-check the front lock because he always did.
This is what grief looks like: steamed dresses and shoes with sticky bows, and a little girl who keeps her hope folded small and neat, like the pink socks she insists on wearing for every special occasion.
It’s been three months since my husband’s funeral.
“Katie, do you need help?” I called from the hallway. She didn’t answer at first.
When I peeked into her room, I saw her perched on the bed, staring at her reflection in the closet mirror. She wore the dress Keith picked out last spring, the one she called her “twirl dress.”