I sat across my music therapist. Usually, this is supposed to help me socialize, and ironically, think of things other than music. Today, it was to help me cope with your death.

My therapist was trying to get me to socialize with him. He was utterly failing. I was not in the mood to be a client that day.

“Here. Let’s play drums.” He showed me the hand drum. Usually, I like playing drums, if my mood wasn’t dark.

“No.” I stare ahead, keeping my expression flat. It’s my only way to not think of you, to not cry hot tears down my face.

“Well, all right then. Let’s play the guitar.” He gestures toward the guitar. His wide, fake (how do I know it’s fake?) grin exposes his white teeth.

“No!” I stomp my feet, tears brimming.