Our lists hang on the refrigerator door, side by side. Both are slightly crumpled from brushes with tiny shoulders, with my knee when my hands are full—a baby in one arm and a bag of groceries in the ...

I think about what I would wear to your funeral if you died tragically, perhaps in a car accident, and I’d have to walk into church, our church, with the stained glass windows that make it look like the sun is peeking through the forest, dressed all in black with our kids trailing behind me and everyone staring, maybe in one of those hats with a veil over my eyes so no one could see my mascara run while I read that poem you like about the indispensable man, and host a luncheon at our house, the one I insisted we buy even though it had holes in the walls and a busted down front door, but it doesn’t look like that anymore because you fixed it all, and I’d tell everyone gathered to mourn you about how you stayed up late after work for years to spackle and solder and repair and redesign, and then everyone would leave and I’d sit quietly in the house you made our home, on the stairs that you painted - black treads and white risers with smudgy handprints that came later – and sob in unison with the sounds of our babies’ sleeping breaths. I think about it so if it happens, I’m not too surprised, too shattered. Which is to say, I love you. --- Olivia Brochu's work has been featured by Anti-Heroin Chic, Feels Blind Literary, The Inquisitive Eater, and more. Her essay about her father's heart attack was a WOW Women on Writing contest finalist. She is a fan of gut-wrenching prose, rollercoasters, and baby feet. You can read more at oliviabrochuwrites.com.