I still cry when I walk into the bathroom. The cabinet doors remain closed most of the time, but when I’m looking for something I lost, and the last place to look is underneath the sink, I’m forced to go behind doors I’d rather remain closed.
I still cry when I need toothpaste. One of the drawers in the sink cabinet was yours. You left some things in there; like a mismatched earring, like the makeup bag, like that mary kay makeup remover, like that small green box with some of your unwanted cheap jewelery that you left behind. Sometimes I think the toothpaste is there, and I open the drawer only to be struck by a burst of melancholy memories.
I still cry when I walk into your closet. There is a bag, tied up in a knot. Inside the bag, there’s a six-pack of tennis ball tubes that we were going to use up on our weekly matches at the neighborhood park. If I remember correctly, we played once or twice. Then we gave up.
I still cry when I walk into the room. Not always, I do manage to go about with out worry most of the time. I do find it tough, however, to make the bed, leave the room, and come back to see it just like you used to leave it when you left for work; and I would come back for lunch. That hurts.
I still cry when I wash the dishes. All of your china is still here, the plates we used to eat out of in your dorm, in your apartment a year ago, and here before you left. Your golf mugs, your home depot water bottle, you paring knife, your cutting board we used to chop up long onions and tomatoes to make arroz con pollo. The rice maker, obviously – it still has that little blue tag with your name on it. That makes me cry.
I still cry when I sit on this desk. The pencil holder is there, again, with the little name tag. Your pencil bag is on the tp shelf, still full of markers, pens, crayons, all from your high school days before I even met you. The plants are just to the right, on the porch, and they’re slowly dying in this summer heat. I water them as often as I can, but they just want to die.
