When grief is on the menu

A photograph of a half-eaten sandwich is buried deep within my camera roll. Every now and then it will pop up as I scroll through pictures or when I am uploading new ones. I stop and breathe a little differently for a moment. I know the date without looking: April 16, 2012. My best friend died two days before. A drunk driver killed her. I had to go to work on that Monday morning, and as I left I was hyper-aware of the thin wheat sandwich round on the stovetop. I know I had smeared a little peanut butter on the bread, taking bites as I went about my morning routine. A daily ritual. But not that day. That day the half-eaten breakfast called, And it was. That uneaten breakfast was a symbol that things had changed instantly. The raging pain of it. The kick