Whiskey & Ribbons

by Leesa Cross-Smith

And I would fix it. I could fix the bikes. From the beginning of my life I’ve always tried to make broken things better. I’d take them apart.

“Women, you are sleek and gorgeous. You hold us together, you’re the ribbons. We’re men. Dangerous only if you take us too seriously. We’re the whiskey. To whiskey and ribbons,” Eamon said, lifting his glass.

What no one tells you about grief is that you don’t want to figure out a way to live with it—you want the part of you that hurts to die instead. Living with it isn’t an option—a part of you has to die.