Dance
His clean laundry is still in the basket, waiting to be folded. The bed is left unmade. The indentation of his head is still in his pillow. His clothes still hang on the hook, shoes in the basket. Christmas gifts left unopened. It's been five months since he died. I am okay, I am not okay. When my mother-in-law asks why I haven't sent out Ryan's senior pictures yet, I freeze, pretend I did, and then quietly remember that those were last year's photos. I'm peppered with how, why, and when questions at the graduation lunch I was supposed to plan, not my son, and I start to cry. They don't understand. They have no idea how much I want to be who I used to be. Do all of the things I used to do. I want to go for 30-mile bike rides with my son. I want to go to the Y twice a week and lift weights. I want to plan a big graduation open house for my son. I want to make dinner each night and bake cookies every week. But right now, I have a fifty-pound brick on my chest and...