Mornings are the hardest. I go for walks; I could walk for hours. I feel like I can’t walk far enough, long enough, fast enough. I try not to go there, not to ask why. It can pull me deep into a pit of despair. There are these photos on my phone. They are reminders, witnesses really, because memory is such a fickle thing. There is a picture of our hands. Mine is bandaged because she scratched me and clawed me until I bled. Hers is bruised because she was restrained to the hospital bed. They said, “She would hurt herself.” I can still see the ICU with its dim lights, feel its cold fear, smell its disinfected air. I can still hear her singing hymns at the top of her lungs, pleading with God for mercy. I still cry at church because the songs gnaw at my heart, the words filled with unfettered truth. I am waiting for that one Sunday when I am numb enough to shed not a single tear. It will be welcoming. It will be maddening.