All the Dangerous Things

by Stacy Willingham

Sleep, those little slices of death. How I loathe them. —ANONYMOUS

Sometimes, the mind is just stronger than our attempts to override it.

“Nothin’ about grief makes sense.” He shook his head. “Not for any of us.”

Because that’s the thing about time: It feels endless in the mornings, the day stretched out before you like a long yawn.

That no matter what we do, no matter how hard we try, we’re doing it all wrong. That every little thing is our fault; that we’re unfit, unworthy. That our shortcomings are the cause

of every scream and tear and trembling lip.

I understand that there’s something even more unsettling than being alone in the dark.

It’s realizing that you’re not really alone at all.

Margret’s body would decay and rot and turn into nothing but bones, and there, still wedged into her armpit, would be Ellie, her baby—eyes open, lips grinning, buried alive.