Triangle Walks

I remembered you yesterday, in the backseat of the car as the 550 passed us by. I remembered there's still evidence of you, buried under the unfinished game of Battleship, which I took down from the closet for us to play. I remembered the letters I tossed out of the old wooden box, nondescript details of some nondescript day when you were still here. I remembered the perfectly curled downy feather from your uncle's funeral, the one that means goodbye (why were we always practicing how to say goodbye?).

I threw out the bottle of vanilla extract yesterday. The wheat flour is still in the cupboard, but it will be gone soon, too. The game of Battleship will eventually find its way back to the closet, the letters will disappear in some dark corner I won't bother trying to reach. The feather will just be a feather.

You might not answer my calls because you might not care anymore. I might still find myself saying "I hate you" with less and less conviction and more habit. I might forget your smile lines and the exact shade of your eyes. I might forget what your hair felt like, or the whiskers on your chin. I won't remember the crook of your elbow as it hit me across the chest that night I realized you'd rather go out of the country than stay by my side. The evidence will be gone, and this house will be buried, these bones will break, and in the end all I can think is, were you ever really here?

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