The Relics of a Life

I find you everywhere.

A lip balm in the key bowl by the front door. An instamatic photograph tucked in the glove compartment of my truck. A single sock at the bottom of the sock bag, desperately seeking its twin; longing for the warmth of a foot. Ribbons fallen under your bed. A half eaten box of Shapes still in the pantry. Crumpled togs forgotten by the spa. Your name scrawled across your phone charger taunts me.

Belatedly reading Divergent on the kindle I flick the page to find a section of text you’ve highlighted. I read the words hungrily, devouring the newness, the closeness to your mind, desperately trying to decipher why you selected these words, among many. What do they say about you, who you were, what interested you, who you might have been?

So many signs of your presence. Yet you have gone. How am I supposed to go on with all your stuff, but not you? So much of you, so little of you. I don’t understand, I can’t understand.