Young enough that half his belongings were still in my house.
His old sneakers remained near the garage door for months because I couldn’t bring myself to move them.
There was a hoodie hanging behind his bedroom door that still smelled faintly like his detergent.
Eventually, I packed some things away.
Not everything.
Grief makes you irrational about objects.
A chipped coffee mug can become sacred.
An old grocery receipt can feel impossible to throw away if your child’s handwriting is on the back.
The cemetery became the one place where I allowed myself to stop pretending I was doing better than I was.
I visit his grave every Sunday.
At first, I went because staying home felt worse. Then it became routine.
Every Sunday morning, I bought coffee from the same little shop near my neighborhood.
I drove across town, parked under a row of old trees, and walked the familiar path toward Caleb’s grave.
