Listen, grief’s a heavy coat. Some days you wear it like a classic trench, buttoned up tight, shoulders squared, looking put together. Other days, it slips off your shoulders like last season’s ratty, worn-out cardigan, and you feel the sun on your skin again. No one can tell you when to take it off, but you can always change the fit. Maybe try something that breathes a little. You don’t have to toss it aside, just loosen the seams.
(Betsy says grief can’t be compared with fashion. Which isn’t true. Everything is a metaphor for fashion. She also wants me to add: You’re not broken, Birdie. You’re still you. And whoever he was, he’d be damn proud you’re still putting one foot in front of the other. She also wants you to know she has coupons for Froyo, if you need sweets.)
(Helen says, and I quote): “It is not inappropriate to accept help from a mail carrier if one’s hedges pose a hazard.”
We’re rooting for you. Whether it’s a checklist or a chat with the mailman.
Love,
Ginny, Betsy, and Helen (who reminded me it’s impossible to love someone on a Reddit message stream. Don’t mind her.)
I don’t reply again.
And I don’t upvote because I’m still not exactly sure what that means.
But my fingers do move to save the post.
______________
I’m still thinking about that ridiculous Reddit thread, the one with the romance checklists and spicy book tropes and the overly confident women, and now I’m spiraling through the idea of grief checklists, too. Is it possible for both to exist? Can there really be room for love and sadness at the same time, like mismatched socks you wear anyway because the laundry didn’t get folded? It’s all starting to feel far too philosophical for this early in the morning, which is a surefire sign that I need either a run, a nap, or a therapeutic stroll with Frank.
I settle on the stroll option, because it turns out existential crises don’t pair well with sports bras.
I’ve wrangled us out the door, me in one sneaker and one sock, Frank circling like a senile rodeo horse, when I hear the unmistakable sputter and hum of the mail truck turning onto our street.
Of course.
Perfect timing.
If I hustle, I might be able to make it down the porch steps and around the corner before Noah sees me. I’m not sure why I want to avoid him, exactly, just that the thought of bumping into him while I’m knee-deep in feelings about love, death, and dogs makes me feel itchy in my own skin.
I call Frank, who is now moving with the glacial urgency of a retired sloth. I swear, the dog can hear the mail truck too, and he’s in no rush to leave his morning routine of stretching, barking, and offering Noah his best guard dog impression.
“Frank. Let’s go.”
He blinks at me like I’ve ruined his day, and because I’m feeling too restless to deal with passive-aggressive dog stares, I givehis bottom a gentle shove to get him moving. He lumbers down the porch like an arthritic goat, and I tumble forward after him, still hopping on one foot, trying to jam my other sneaker on without untying. Frank’s leash ends up clenched between my teeth, one shoe skids down the front steps, and I’m pretty sure the neighbors are watching me lurch around like a feral Muppet.
All I can think is: Please let me avoid Noah and my feelings and whatever potential mail is addressed to Owen today.
But the truck’s already parked in its spot a few houses down from mine, and Noah and his impressively long legs are moving with confidence toward my front door.
I’m not going to make it.
“So…” Noah stretches out the syllables as he eyes my half-shoed state before popping the mail in my mailbox and looking at Frank, who’s casually stretched out on my porch. “Looks like you’re keeping the dog? And going for a walk?”
“I haven’t decided yet, on the dog, I mean.” I finish lacing up my tennis shoes.
“Looks like you were on the fence there with the walk too.”
I figure it’s better not to mention the fact that I’ve already memorized the sound of Frank’s peculiar snoring and know exactly how he likes his ears rubbed. “We’re coexisting.”
Noah raises an eyebrow, leveling me with a stare that speaks volumes. “I dare you to keep him.”
I feel it rise, automatic and hot. The ridiculous pull of a dare. He knows what he’s doing. In college, he and Owen would make up the most absurd dares just to see how far they could push me. They learned fast: I could never resist one. Not since third grade, when Emily Bishop double-dog dared me to eat an entire packet of Pop Rocks without closing my mouth. I did it. Then hiccupped purple foam and got to go home early.
Worth it.
“You’re evil.” I glare at him before snapping the leash on Frank and giving it a gentle tug.
