Sometimes I mention Mom and watch grief move across her face.
Neither of us tries to make the other feel better immediately anymore.
That’s progress.
Last Christmas, Rebecca came to my house.
It was the first holiday we’d spent together since she “died.”
I found her in the kitchen early that morning, staring into a cabinet.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for coffee.”
“You hate coffee.”
“I do.”
“Tea’s on the left.”
She opened the wrong cabinet.
I laughed.
She looked offended.
“You reorganized.”
“I’ve lived here nine years.”
“Exactly. You had plenty of time to organize it correctly.”
For one second, I heard the old Rebecca.
Then it was gone.
And I realized I didn’t need it back.
Later, Lucy gave her a ridiculous purple scarf she’d knitted herself.
Rebecca wore it all day despite the house being warm.
After dinner, we drove to the cemetery.
