“ Get away from my house and all its rooms that echo, all the rooms I don't enter anymore. ”
This is what I'm supposed to be doing this summer. This is how I'm supposed to be passing my days. Figuring out the secret to how she was the most joyful person when she was dying. Because I'm living, and I sure as hell don't have a clue how to feel anything but empty.
~ Daisy Whitney
When someone you love has died, there is a certain grace period during which you can get away with murder. Not literal murder, but pretty much anything else.
Do you need anything? she asks. A mom A dad. Someone. Anyone. Can you arrange for that? Nah, I'm good.
I don't tell her that my grasp on truth, on words, on people, has slipped. I was getting close, so close to normal again, and that's been snatched away. I'm not even back where I started. I'm somewhere else entirely, so far off the map I don't know where to turn next.
