During Robert’s Funeral, My Sons Stood By The Casket With Dry Eyes And Perfect Black Suits…

and neighbors who waved while sweeping the sidewalk. In the mornings, the street smelled of warm bagels and coffee. In the evenings, of rain and wet asphalt.

The first time I made coffee in the new place, I just stared at the mug. Robert noticed. “You don’t have to drink it.” “I want to.”

I picked it up. Smelled it. Took a sip. It was bitter. Hot. Normal.continue reading …