Sometimes we live with the ghosts of the living.
For a good stretch of time after they leave home, you find your daughters’ hairs. One might be impaled in a blanket, or stuck to a bathroom tile, swept up out of a seldom-cleaned corner, or just float down from who-knows-where. Then you find another daughter hair for the first time in a long while. And you hold it, because it might be the last one. Then you toss it in the trash. That is the most difficult tossing.
kazaraj 