The door is closed and it’s an exercise in attention control not to glance at it every time I pass through the upstairs hallway.
I trace the line of a crack in the baseboard to avoid having to look (for the millionth time) at her penguin cartoon, her BEHOLD, MY MESS sign, the taped-up fortune cookie messages she favored.
Before, these decorative things were so familiar as to be invisible. Now, they glare at me like oncoming headlights.