People say that a Christmas card shows a lot about how a family wants to be seen. Just imagine if, every day, your mom posted images of you and your family. You’d have thousands of visions of what your mom wants you and your family to be. But they’d always look like a scrapbook of someone else’s life.
An electric buzz of the vending machine. The gentle tap of water leaking from a pipe above. Not knowing if the footsteps drifting away are what I should be terrified of.
Because it’s overwhelming, I count. Throwing in the Mississippi in between like Mom taught me. I count slower when I hit fifty, then even slower when I hit two hundred. I start again at zero, pretending that his absence during the first three hundred seconds doesn’t matter.