The Ghost Fold

going through motions post-loss

Dear Crumbheads,

. . .

You fold the dough like someone else’s memory. Movements rehearsed, but nothing lands. The Ghost Fold drifts through the steps, hoping maybe presence will show up late. You check the timing. You do what you're “supposed” to. But nothing warms. The grief lives under your fingernails — sticky, shapeless, loyal.

Hold the bowl like a question. You don’t have to know the answer.

I ghosted my own emotions once. Left them on read. Still waiting to get ghosted back.

What are you holding that never really held you back?

Wrap it up. Not to hide it — just to pause.