Today I just felt it for the first time
three months and one day after you died.
I realized that these photographs we have of you
are slowly replacing the subtle familiar
memory of what it’s like
to know you’re in the other room,
to hear you singing on the stairs,
a movement, a pinecone, your squeaking chair,
the quiet untreasured in between times,
the actual experience of you here.
I can feel these memories escaping
colonized by photos, narrowed down, told.
My mind erasing.
The echo of you in the house dies down.
October wind blows.
It makes a door close.
I look over my shoulder to make sure
but there is nobody here.
I finally took out the upstairs bathroom garbage that was sitting there forgotten since you were here
wanting just to stay with us
just to stay living.
I threw it away.
Your dried out bloody end of life tissues,
Your toothbrush and your trash,
and the fly buzzing around the room, could that possibly be you too?
I let it go out the window.
It does not feel good.
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