I will never understand how a woman can stand up on her own two legs and talk to people and hug them and nod with a slight smile through mascara-ed eyes while standing a few feet away from her husband’s casket.

I do not know how a daughter does it either, standing solid and tall in high heeled black shoes, looking calm and beautiful.

I do not know these things because I have never been robbed of someone so close to me. Somewhat close, yes. But not that close.

And I do not know why I can drive back from the funeral home and stare into space as my stomach moves silently in and out with each breath and the green digits on the car clock burn neon against black.

Or why I can park my car in my parents’ driveway and walk into the house while the dryer hums, lazily tossing about my yellow bedsheets.

Or why my father will stand, reading glasses perched on his nose and ask, “How was it?”

And I will shrug and say “fine” because I can’t believe he is talking to me and I can’t believe I am answering him and I can’t believe I rarely ever notice how much I love the sound of his voice.

He settles back on the couch then, newspaper resting on his knee.

And I want to tell him that he can never die, that he is not allowed. The only part of him that I will allow to die are the cancer cells that reside in his prostate. The rest of him must live forever because I am not that strong. I cannot stand straight and tall in black high heels while he lays still a room away.

Instead, I say it’s fine. And I pick up the laundry off the floor, still warm, and press it to my cheek. From where I stand, I can see the back of his head rising up above the couch, the hook of his eyeglasses around his ears and his elbow snug on the armrest. He takes a sip of coffee and I stand there in socks and stare.