Tonight, for the first time, I was home alone for a couple of hours and the houses was quiet. It is easy to fool the mind into thinking that she will come through the door at any minute with all the energy and pandemonioum of a teenage girl, but I felt the silence closing in. And so I made myself go into her room and touch her things, smell her pillow and kiss the big mirror alongside the row of sticky prints where she blotted her lipstick, a palate of shades from blood red to the palest pink. I bitched at her about the state of her closet and refolded the clean laundry stacked in little piles on her bed. Somehow this helps. Someday soon, I am afraid, I won’t be able to open that door. I am living in this constant state of fear of that day.
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