I should be using these last hours to check the seating, to review the order of speakers, to make sure the candles will light even if the wind kicks up in the courtyard. That is what a Luna does: she anticipates every need before it becomes a problem.
Instead, I find myself standing in front of my closet as if the wrong choice of fabric could ruin the day. It feels like if I pick the wrong dress, it will mean I didn’t grieve correctly, I didn’t honor him properly, and I didn’t deserve to be the one still breathing.
I choose black because it feels expected; anything else feels like theft. The dress is simple, with long sleeves and a modest neckline, the kind of thing that doesn’t draw attention. I don’t want eyes on me, I don’t want sympathy. I don’t want anyone to look at me and remember
