Someone Else's Bucket List

by Amy T. Matthews

Chemo had taught Bree that fear was an emotional black hole. It had gravity so dense it not only pulled you in, it pulled you inside out. It was best to avoid it. To deny it. To chart a course in the opposite direction.

Grief was like weather: it had seasons and moods, and it could always take a turn for the worse. Today had started with lowering clouds of gloom and the rainy smell of despair; there had been razor-sharp, heart-hurting cold; then a bitter wind had blown in, churning the flat gray sky into a stormy sea of misery; and now there was driving, sheeting, pelleting sleet. The kind that flayed the skin off your bones.

That was the thing about death, it put someone out of reach forever. You could never, ever ask them a question, ever again.

Grief was a bitch. It screwed everything up.

She would love her sister until her last breath. But the love that remained was sad in the same way the end of fall was sad. Transformation wasn’t always good. Spring and summer had flown, and winter was falling like a long shadow. She hurt. All the

time. Like she had a phantom limb that ached and ached, even though it wasn’t there anymore.

how natural death is. How it’s just another part of life, another cliff to jump from . . . another trip to take.”