At first, she’d felt like an intruder.
I’d be sitting at my desk at night and roll my chair back from my desk as a reprieve from political theory texts, and there she would be, lounging comfortably on my bed sewing hems onto jeans.
I’d hear the tinkling bell of a laugh on the second before I’d put my AirPods in and turned on my music, and she’d be hovering just a step behind me with that bright grin I knew so well.
I’d come in front the backyard to refill my grandfather’s drink, and she would be there in the kitchen, back to me, standing between my mother and my aunt, a queen overseeing her queendom.
I’d put that custom made outfit on and feel her fingers and her arms creeping around my shoulders like a blanket.
The intruder’s presence threatened to drown me. I couldn’t cry enough tears. I couldn’t wail loud enough. I couldn’t smile wide enough. I dreaded the coin flip—will she make me laugh today or will she make me cry?
For grief is not my enemy, even if she wears my grandmother’s skin.