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There is always a last ordinary day, but it never tells us.
Someone laughs from another room.
A cup is left near the sink.
A hand waves without turning around, because everyone believes there will be another chance to look properly.
Then time moves the furniture inside our lives.
The room stays, but the voice is gone. The cup is washed.
The small goodbye we barely answered becomes the sentence we return to for years.
We think grief begins when someone leaves, but sometimes it begins later, in a grocery aisle, in the smell of rain, in a song that remembers too much.
What breaks us is not only losing people.
It is realizing how gently they were living beside us while we were busy being somewhere else.