I couldn’t.
Because the truth is, when you’re the one who stayed, grief doesn’t come like a movie scene. It comes like a to-do list.
Call the hospice nurse back.
Return the oxygen equipment.
Fold the last load of laundry that somehow still smells like the person who’s gone.
Find the sweater she wore on her last “good day” and press it to your face like it might explain why the world keeps moving.
And then, apparently, discuss the assets.
My sister arrived two hours later with a car full of things she called “help.” Paper plates. A plastic tablecloth. A tray of cookies from a grocery store bakery.
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