What she kept: the good knife, the bad habit, the phone number she had never called. The coat that was technically his but had always fit her better. The ability to sleep through anything. The inability to sleep through anything.
What she gave away: the furniture that remembered him. The books she had read to seem interesting. The idea that she owed anyone an explanation.
What she threw out: the version of herself that thought this was temporary. The optimism that had served her so poorly for so long. The list of things she was going to do when she felt better.
What she found, going through boxes: a photograph she didn't remember taking. A receipt for something she couldn't identify. A note in her own handwriting that said only: you already know what to do.
She did not remember writing it. She did not know what it referred to. She put it on the refrigerator anyway.
What she kept, in the end: more than she expected. Less than she feared. The window that faced east. The habit of waking before the alarm. The knowledge that she had survived every bad day so far, which was not nothing, which was in fact quite a lot, which was perhaps the only inventory that mattered.