to keep showing up.
Not because I felt strong.
Because my sons were still breathing and I was theirs.
One week after Kora died, someone knocked on the front door.
I almost ignored it.
I wasn’t fit for company, and I assumed it was another neighbor bringing lasagna because grief in our town tends to arrive in foil pans.
The knock came again.
Patient.
Not pushy.
Something made me stand.
It was Angela.
Off shift.
Jeans.
A cardigan.
I had never seen her outside scrubs.
She looked like someone’s aunt
