the closet. Holding on to it is unhealthy, right? But grief’s not an animal on a leash. It stays, regardless of how tight or loose you hold on. It settles in. It walks alongside you. I wish I had two good arms so I could cross them, put something between my heart and this moment, but I can’t, so I hold the wooden banister tight with one hand while hot tears dribble down my cheeks. Cash digs his hand in his back pocket and comes out with a navy-blue handkerchief. He holds it up. “It’s a little damp. I was sweating on my way up to your place.” He holds it there, between us, shame on his face.
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