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How did people keep doing—keep existing—on the hard days? I didn’t know. I didn’t think I ever would.
But the actual end of the world is the sound of a car pulling to a stop in front of a church. It is car doors opening and shutting one after the other. Bang. Bang. Bang. It is me burying my face in my mother’s dress and whispering, “I can’t” over and over again, because today we are supposed to bury my father. It
“Well, there’s one thing I can promise you, Grit. As long as you’re here, as long as the people I love most are here, I will be too. I will always be with you.” He pats his chest. “In here.”
“I can’t promise you nothing bad will ever happen again. I wish I could, but I can’t,” Dad says. “But my job and your job isn’t to see life coming. It’s to be the best you can be, to love people, to live even if it scares you. That’s the thing I want most for you—not that you stop being afraid, but that you keep living, even when you’re afraid.”
“You don’t have to be strong, baby. We’ll do it weak. We’ll limp and hurt and take everything one day at a time.
It was the worst thing. It is the worst thing. But I realized something: the world only ends when the world ends. And even then, there’s an after.
