His old sneakers sat beside the garage door for months because I couldn’t bring myself to move them.
A hoodie hung behind his bedroom door and still carried the faint smell of his detergent.
Eventually, I packed some things away.
But not everything.
Grief makes you irrational about objects.
A chipped coffee mug can suddenly become sacred.
An old grocery receipt can feel impossible to throw away simply because your child’s handwriting is
scribbled on the back.
The cemetery became the one place where I didn’t have to pretend I was doing better than I actually was.
I visited Caleb every Sunday.
At first, I went because staying home felt worse.
Then it became a routine.
Every Sunday morning, I bought coffee from the same little shop near my neighborhood.
I drove across town, parked beneath a row of old trees, and walked the familiar path toward Caleb’s grave.
