Nobody tells you that you will miss it. Not her. The work.

My mother died in February. Nine days later I was standing in a pharmacy aisle at eleven at night, because eleven at night was when I used to go, and there was nothing to buy, and I just stood there.

For four years my whole day had a shape. Pills at eight. Lunch at noon whether she wanted it or not. That awful green chair by the window. Then it was over and the shape was gone and I did not know what I was for.

People kept telling me I must be relieved. I was. That was not the whole of it.

At two in the morning I looked it up, convinced something was wrong with me for feeling flat instead of shattered. There was nothing wrong with me. There is nothing wrong with you either.

It got easier around month five. I cannot tell you why month five. But it came without me doing anything clever to bring it, and it will come for you.