Everywhere

Not sure what it is, but I thought I would show you anyways. It’s darker than almost all of what I write.

– – – – – – – – – –

Everywhere I go, I see you.

It’s never you fully, but it’s the small things—the details that I didn’t notice before.

I notice them now.

In the glass dew drops that cling to plants, I see not dew, not glass, not nature, not anything beautiful. I see you in the brown paper bag that the old woman that lives across the road clutches on her Saturday morning grocery trip, and I see you in the way the young alcoholic two houses down watches everyone from his dusty window. I see your long fingers in the pencils all school girls seem to be wearing behind their ears. I see your ears wearing the bright blue earmuffs that I could never bring myself to return.

The way your eyes shined: the old streetlight on the edge of my street, flickering at 10 PM. The way your lips would curl into a ghost of a smile: the way the Starbucks barista pronounces how in the how are you. The way you clutched your notebook: the graffiti scribbles on the forlorn, overworked train that passes by your house.

There are bigger things, too. The way you watched everyone—the way an artist tries to understand  the world. The way you ate—bite by bite, a minnow tackling a whale shark. The way you walked out of any doors—always looking up because not enough people appreciated door frames.

I see your left, barely arched eyebrow in every stroke of a line. The sign no longer holds words, but your left eyebrow in multitude, in different angles, in different poses. Together, they are not readable but emotional.

The way your hair curled on rainy days. The way your off-white teeth beamed a small smile when you wanted to laugh at an inappropriate time. The way the edge of your eyelids crinkled into mini-smiles when I tripped.

I see your tears in the broken faucet in the kitchen. The way you clenched your fists: broken light bulb in the hallway. The way you left—no longer looking at the doorframe. I see your letter, try and reread it, but only see your eyebrow. The way you left one heel on the doorstep of my house but never came back to get it.

I see you in small things and big things and nooks and crannies and dreams. I see you in the way I can’t clean up the vase in the entryway because I broke it right after you left.  I see you in the way empty painkiller bottles line the kitchen counter and how none of them ease the throbbing.

Everywhere I go, I see you.

 

 

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4 thoughts on “Everywhere

    • Thank you so much for the comment! And I think so too—the narrator thinks about how she’s this absence in his life, when really he is so much more filled up with the things left behind. It’s a strange inversion.

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