The moment I reached for my phone to call her before remembering.
Seeing his handwriting on an old birthday card.
The first Father's Day I didn't buy a card.
When a song came on that she used to sing wrong on purpose.
Finding her reading glasses in a coat pocket I hadn't worn since.
The first time I cooked his recipe and it tasted exactly right.
When someone asked how many siblings I have and I counted wrong.
Passing the exit for her street on the highway without thinking.
The smell of his workshop. Sawdust and WD-40. I walked past a hardware store and had to stop.
When someone said "you sound just like your mother" and I had to leave the room.
Seeing a man his age reading a newspaper in a café.
The first birthday after. Getting cards from everyone except the one that mattered.
Realising I can't remember her voice clearly anymore.
The half-finished crossword I found in his chair.
When my child did something funny and I wanted to call her immediately.
Deleting the contact. Then undoing it.
The way grief shows up at the worst possible times. Supermarkets. Work meetings. Traffic.
The first holiday season where no one called at 7am.
Finding a voicemail I'd saved and listening to it three times in a row.
When the world expected me to be fine again.
Catching myself about to say "I'll ask my dad" about something I'll never know now.
The way I still buy the brand of crackers she liked, even though no one else in the house does.
His chair. Still his chair.
The anniversary that comes and goes and nobody else remembers.
Do you have one?
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