My daughter has moved back home and is now living in what we have always called “Grandma’s Room.” In the room that we knew, when looking at this house, would be perfect for Dave’s mother who stayed with us here in Atlanta during the winter months. I hadn’t spent much time in that room since Marrion passed away, nearly a year ago. When I walk into the room now to see my daughter I feel an overwhelming sense of astonishment because her absence is still so incomprehensible. It hits me like a brick wall. Tissue boxes and Merle Norman face cream are still tucked away under the sink, just like they always were. And I tell Robyn to leave them there. It’s where they belong. And I feel the way I’ve felt for almost a year now: I have one foot in the present and one foot in the past. It seems impossible that she’s not here. Loss is big and vast and incomprehensible. Loss is also tiny and close and very real. It’s knowing you’ll never hear her voice again. Never see them lounging on the couch in new pajamas. Someday you have to enter the room and empty their closet, look under their bed, give away their eyeglasses and paperbacks. Loss is not knowing what to do with the prescription bottles that line the dresser, the face cream and their driver’s licence, and the new blouse with the price tag still on it. And loss is not knowing what you’ll do when the next person dies. Loss is death, but it’s also life. It makes you want to grab on and not let go. It’s a reminder that it can change. And that it changes everything.