A Strange Dog Sat at My Son’s Grave Every Day – One Day, I Decided to Follow It – Page 2

No late-night question.

No photograph of

some terrible meal he was strangely proud of making.

No short text asking if I could transfer him $20 because, somehow, he had already spent everything he had.

Then reality comes rushing back.

Caleb is gone.

Some days, that truth arrives gently.

Other days, it feels as though I am hearing it for the very first time.

He was only 19 when the accident happened.

So young that half of his belongings were still in my house.

His old sneakers sat beside the garage door for months because I couldn’t bring myself to move them.

A hoodie hung behind his bedroom door and still carried the faint smell of his detergent.

Eventually, I packed some things away.

But not everything.

Grief makes you irrational about objects.