Chalk pieces of the jiprock we excavated from the house, line the stairs outside like little sprinkles of cocaine guiding me up and down the spiraling path. I had to touch it to see what it was.
I went to get the mail but when I arrived at the box, I discovered the key was not on my key chain anymore. Stupidly, I checked to see if the house key was there even though I locked the front door minutes before.
Now, I will be bringing the boxes downstairs on that strange, dimly lit stage Marc has set up for my belongings.

It feels like a funeral.
No.
A burial.