I ache. My insides are shredded. I sat on the floor trying to calculate what year he was born. 1990 - 2008. It pulls me to pieces, and I cry again. The tears just come. They won't seem to stop. And why should they? I don't want relief. I want to ache forever. He dyed his hair - it looked good that day. A piece of duct tape on his knee. Cheating at cards. Tubing down the Provo River. That cold day in December when he was wrapped tightly, laying in a basinette. I remember what I didn't know was there.

I can’t eat.
I set down my fork.
My stomach is twisted and achy; it feels empty and full at the same time. I think they call this “nerves”.
I don’t particularly like it.
I mean, I’d really like to eat.