It's so incredibly quiet in this house. Tomorrow is Christmas, and the noises in the house are from mechanical things - a dryer, a fan opening under the house. There is no music, no laughter, no arguing. No sneaking into the back bedroom to wrap the pile of gifts, because there are no gifts, no decorations. There are my sons in their separate rooms, me in a third, silent, sad, thoughtful.
Two days ago, at work, someone burst a balloon. It triggered a memory of that day. I thought she had maybe slammed a door, maybe taken my car and had slammed the car door. It was the chair being kicked away.
Grief. I don't want this. I don't want this to be the last thing that you gave me, Hannah. You had so much that you could offer the world.
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