myself grief made people cling to strange things.
A white Tile tracker was clipped inside the suitcase’s front pocket.
“What’s this for?”
Gary barely looked over.
“In case the bag gets lost.”
I frowned.
“How is a suitcase sitting in our closet going to get lost?”
He didn’t answer.
I let it go.
Sometimes his phone chimed when I opened the closet. Gary would appear almost immediately, inspect the suitcase, and put it back.
Again, I explained it away.
Grief.
Everything strange in our house became grief.
Then, the week
