On my lunch break from work, doing another one of those excruciating tasks. I’m in Dad’s email again. It kills my heart to be in there. I shouldn’t be anywhere near his personal stuff. He should be in here, monitoring emails, deleting junk mail, responding to people, reading interesting things. It’s just all so wrong, and I’m forced to face that surreal juxtaposition of what what should be and brutal reality.
I realize this is a common scenario, having to monitor old accounts, etc. How on earth do people do this and manage to carry on? I must not be as strong as most people, it just absolutely ruins me. My nephew continues to send weather updates to his Grandpa. I weep. Has anyone ever been electrocuted from crying over a keyboard before?
I prepare to go back to work for one. My coworkers won’t see the invisible ice pick in my chest, the blood stains from an open wound that won’t stop bleeding.