A Process

It was not your dress,
but mine,
cleaned but creased,
swinging from the back of the bathroom door,
watching me weep on the tiles below.
It is the little things that breaks me into pieces.
You would scold your old dog,
lamenting that she could never learn the new and exciting trick that you called “ironing”,
and as I traced the wrinkled fabric with my fingertips,
I fell to my knees,
aching in a way I could not explain.

I still read your horoscope,
bite my lip and focus my eyes elsewhere until the threat of a flood has subsided.
Nobody but me is at the “No words. I’m just so sorry” stage anymore.
They have plenty to say to me,
but it’s all normal.
They’re not careful,
not on eggshells,
just years ahead of where you left me.
It’s been so long,
and though they’re too polite to say it,
they’ve forgotten that it hurts me to remember.
It doesn’t even occur to them that I am remembering,
and it isn’t their fault
because I hold vigil in silent solitude.

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