There was very little recoverable evidence inside.
Her purse was found.
Part of her jacket.
Personal belongings.
Authorities eventually declared that she had died in the fire.
We buried a closed casket.
My mother collapsed at the graveside.
My father stopped driving Blackwood Highway for nearly five years.
I spent the first year walking around like somebody had removed half the architecture inside my body.
Therapy helped.
Time helped differently.
I bought a small house.
Found stable work.
Built routines.
Made friends who had never known Lily.
Eventually I could say:
“My sister died.”
Without losing the rest of the day.
But grief leaves strange habits.
I still bought two blueberry pastries sometimes.
Still owned two matching blue coffee mugs because throwing Lily’s away felt like killing her twice.
For almost ten years I had been constructing a life around an absence I believed was permanent.
Now a dental office had called and told me the absence needed a ride home.
