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The inevitability of Edi’s death was like a crumpled dollar bill my brain kept spitting back out.
“I could just cry,” I say, and everyone nods, because probably I will cry, and nobody is overly surprised by this turn of events.
My love for him feels like a cramp under my ribs.
But sometimes I worried that marriage was just a series of these small deflations, our dreams floating around invisibly near the ceiling like escaped gas.
A worldwide crescendo of grief, sustained day after day, and only one tiny note of it is mine.
It’s occurring to me only now that the dying and the loss are actually two different burdens, and each must be borne individually, one after the other.
