March 12, 2020. 12 days after. My tears are like a book tucked away on a shelf. I am content not to check them out. They are obedient and under control. Obedience. Control. I can function if I can control the waves of emotion rising up in me. I am on autopilot. Cruise control. Going through the motions. Moving through each day. Getting by. But today, this book flings itself off the shelf, spills open and demands its story told. Christy’s iPhone vibrates. I’ve watched other calls light up the home screen, usually spam calls leaving no message. Something about the numeric sequence of this call leads me to swipe…