That window is gross. Why don’t I clean it? It’s probably been that way for months, but I only notice because it muddles the morning light.

I’m alone—for now—spending a quiet moment before he gets up, and the smile won’t come. Not the bouquet of brewed coffee nor the caress of fuzzy socks can lift me out of my abyss.

No one told me about the sound a soul makes the moment it leaves its body. I can’t even define it as a shriek, a cry, or a moan—but it’s etched in my brain. That first night, it woke me again and again while my muscles tried to jump through my skin. I’ve since learned to file it away—the sound of death—and I choose not to visit it often.

Worse than the noise were the eyes. In her final breaths, they’d been closed, but as soon as she left, the lids rolled back, and I witnessed for the first time true lifelessness. Sparkly green eyes turned to white marble.

All control forsaken, and yet, I wouldn’t have been anywhere else.

I want to have a good day. A happy day. A day I can feel excited about. I want my son to have a great day. How can he do that when the world gets stickier with each step as he descends down the staircase in the morning? When at the bottom, inky dark webs of melancholia await? I hide under my armor—waterproof mascara, lipstick, and vibrant clothes.

He asks about her, of course, but his innocent mind cannot grasp the depth of losing a forty-year friendship—nor can mine. I want to be genuine. Not yet. Maybe I’ll fool him today. I want to want to get off the couch and play. I need to wash a pan to fry an egg. I have to buy eggs.

I’m exhausted before my day even starts. I want to enjoy my coffee but it’s mud in my mouth.

I want to care about cleaning that damn dirty window.

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