Today will not be a good day to die. Because everyone would know that I didn’t bother to shave my legs. That I still wore maternity shorts. That I hadn’t unloaded the dishwasher past sunset. Nor touched the dirty dishes. Dishes dirtied by frozen meals I’d burnt while produce rotted in the fridge. While cobwebs collected behind the children’s bed. The mountain of blankets on the bed that would sprout dust fountains when they bounced. Their bouncing off walls on an overdose of M&Ms they had for lunch. Walls fortressing me with stubborn bricks of fear. Fear of life, of death and the comatose in-between.