By morning, I had done what grief required.
I drove home through empty streets with Gertrude’s overnight bag in the passenger seat.
Her reading glasses were tucked into the side pocket.
A half-finished roll of peppermints sat at the bottom beside a folded tissue and a bottle of hand lotion.
At a red light, I put my hand on the bag as though steadying it could steady me.
Christopher sent a text just after sunrise.
In meetings all day. Don’t create a crisis while I’m gone.
I read it once.
Then I turned the phone facedown.
The funeral arrangements took most of the next day.
I chose the plain white urn.
I approved a short notice.
I found the navy dress in the guest-room closet and held it against my chest before folding it back into the garment bag.
I called the people Gertrude would have wanted called.
