I turned down the street I thought I grew up on, and saw all the trash cans lined up and waiting, just like I had a week ago. We were coming home from dinner when it hit me again. A truth essential to our lives drummed up by the sight of 64 gallon cans, of all things. This isn’t make believe. We aren’t going home and for now, this is home.

The trash goes out tomorrow. Taking with it, one more week of anger. Taking with it, one short week of settling in, of sorting through my thoughts, and a dash of denial.

It’s over.

We. Are. Over.

Maybe we never were.