The first week I was home, I could barely walk from the kitchen table to the sink without my knees shaking.
Ethan taped my medication schedule to the refrigerator.
Jenna stopped by with soup in plastic containers and pretended not to notice when I had to sit down halfway through a sentence.
I kept expecting grief to arrive in one big dramatic wave.
It did not.
It came in stupid little moments.
The quiet phone.
The empty mailbox.
The lack of a casserole dish from my mother, who had delivered food to every church acquaintance with a sprained ankle but could not drive forty minutes for her own daughter.
Then, one month after I came home, my phone buzzed while I was sitting at our kitchen table.
The morning light was pale through the blinds.
There was a paper coffee cup by Ethan’s laptop and a stack of hospital bills clipped together beside my discharge folder.
For Complete Cooking STEPS Please Head On Over To Next Page Or Open button (>) and don’t forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
