I reach behind my chair to a small lamp stand where my son recommended I hide my car keys in the event that my granddaughter might decide to take our car for a joy ride, when I remember that she will no longer be doing any such thing.
I clean a really nasty kitchen floor when I remember that this is the last mess made by her during her recent cooking binge.
I go to empty the dryer in order to do a load of our own laundry, and I see that it is her laundry.
Every day is now an open door into an unknown future, and her reminders are everywhere. I am cleaning up memories; discarding some, keeping others. Prayer feels absent, so again, I write.