I tend to forget that people are no longer in my life, until I’m confronted with harsh evidence proving otherwise. I can’t remember what the name of that book was that my grandmother used to read to me when I stayed with her during the summer, and I make a note to ask her the next time I talk to her. Staring at the note I realize she died five years ago. I sigh.

When talking to my parents, catching up on what’s what and who’s who in my hometown, I inquire about Jake. “Lori, he died last year. Remember, honey?” I sigh. Oh. That’s right.

While cleaning today, I found a credit card receipt from a dinner not too long ago, signed by a now ex-boyfriend. I remembered that evening and smiled. Then fingered that tangible reminder that he is no longer a part of my life. I sighed.

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