The day the last box went

Ten years fits into fewer boxes than you would think. I counted them while he loaded the truck because counting was something to do with my head.

The thing nobody warns you about is that it doesn't end at the bad part. It ends at the boring part. It ends with a man who stopped noticing the house, stopped noticing the calendar, stopped noticing me, and who could not tell you the day it started because there wasn't one.

I keep waiting to be angry. What I am is tired, and underneath the tired is something I'm not writing down yet.