With you gone, I want to pull out all the things you ever gave me and place them around the house. I want to smell lilacs all day. Plant forget-me-nots. I want to study photo albums and memorize the contours of your face, the placement of your dimple, the austerity of your husband’s camera pose. I am afraid to leave home. Afraid to lose this grief, this memory, this knowing— this closeness to you.
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