What kills me is how amazing and banal it all is. I walk down a street I’ve been walking down as long as I’ve known how to walk on my own two feet. I look up: of course I see the angle of the bank building, the library, a streetlight, and the trees in the park. It is as familiar as the bones in my hand. It doesn’t matter that this is a place of grief, a place I have not been in a year, a place that is fraught with love and hatred. There it is. My hand, the street, the familiar green smell, the blue line of mountains. I am here.