Mom, you’ve been dead thirteen days. You were found on the seventh day of November, five days after you’d gone away. A Michigan State Police Officer phoned me that afternoon, but I didn’t answer the call because I didn’t recognize the number; I didn’t even think to listen to the message he’d left. On the eighth day, Thursday, the police knocked on Tara’s door. Little Sister had to tell Big Sister.
I’d last seen you on October 25—the day Morgan was born. You’d gone to visit Tara and your new granddaughter on Sunday, October 29—that’s the last time Tara had seen you. It is now the sixteenth day of November, and I’m angry that time passes so quickly.
I woke up hungry this morning. I am rarely hungry anymore. Jim bought eggs recently, so I cooked two pancakes the size of my face, two scrambled eggs with sharp cheddar, and a half pound of bacon. I didn’t eat quickly, but purposefully. I felt as if finishing my absurdly large plate would clear me, somehow.