In the aftermath of death, she ferries ashes across town.

I don’t like this place. I’m going to die here.

Because nobody died in the kitchen.

Tears are tricksters. They distort. They reveal.

You brought me here to die.

She picks up a card. And another. She didn’t expect to get even one, because emojis are so much more efficient. But she can’t find those emojis now.

And she feels less alone.

In the aftermath of death, she dresses up. Paints her face. Coifs her hair. And goes out on the town.

“Do you have the death certificate?” Bored face. “Oh yeah, sorry for your loss.”

And somehow, she’ll make herself be okay.

NYT bestselling author NOT WITHOUT MY FATHER | speaker | dreamer | risk-taker | travel whore | turn I wish I had into I’m glad I did andrawatkins.com

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