Today you've been gone for two months. Two months, sixty one days. I got up and went to the office, the business you built from the ground up, and started my cleaning early, before anyone else got there. The day went mostly alright, until Grandma called the Coroner's Office and they had no record of your name.

More waiting for an answer about how you went to sleep and just never woke up. And all the people. They all want to come in and talk about you, ask how we're doing. Most of them don't send sympathies my way. No one knows just how much you were a mother to me and how much I adore you.

And then I try talking to your son because he was the only friend I had for a very long time. And then Grandma was crying at work because we all know it's two months today. Two months since you left us. And your son is frustrated with my sadness. He doesn't want to be sad. I understand this. But who do I turn to when my family is gone? I try making plans with friends before leaving work. So I am not alone. This doesn't happen. So a drive and I cry and I listen music so loud my eardrums pound when finally I turn it down. And I cry so hard it becomes difficult to breathe.

And at the end of it all, I am still alone, sad, crying. And you are still dead.