the haunting of a hairless house and a spotless floor.
Brittney Trickey
A hundred little specks of you linger in my home, they catch on a breeze from an open window and float
over to land on me.
The sight somehow slices me more than a blade ever could.
What an unintentionally cruel reminder of a fact I’d rather ignore.
That you are not here anymore.
The smallest part of you has lain upon my home from the first moment you raced through my door, like
a personally made glitter that can only remind me of one thing.
You.
I used to scoff when I would see it falling everywhere, how obnoxious of a thing to be covering my
home.
I abolished all thoughts of a clean floor when I saw your paw prints everywhere.
A hairless house and spotless floors have now returned to me, laced with an edge that taunts me.
I find my hesitancy when I go to remove these minuscule reminders of you, how these slivers of you that
had once caused such distaste have now bloomed into an almost reverence within me.
I tell myself it isn’t a betrayal to remove them, these ghostly reminders of you.
It’s okay to clean a floor.
My logic can’t seem to alter the feelings that come from mopping your paw prints away for the last
time, suddenly it felt a lot like a sin of some kind.
I forced myself to give away all the food you never got the chance to finish, along with the treats you
loved that I really wish I’d given you more of.
I packed away all your colorful toys that I can no longer bare the sight of, and the collar I removed when
I was losing you now resides on a wooden box that’s filled with the only part of you I have left.
I tell myself you were only a pet, no one grieves forever over them...
Right?
Right. . .
over to land on me.
The sight somehow slices me more than a blade ever could.
What an unintentionally cruel reminder of a fact I’d rather ignore.
That you are not here anymore.
The smallest part of you has lain upon my home from the first moment you raced through my door, like
a personally made glitter that can only remind me of one thing.
You.
I used to scoff when I would see it falling everywhere, how obnoxious of a thing to be covering my
home.
I abolished all thoughts of a clean floor when I saw your paw prints everywhere.
A hairless house and spotless floors have now returned to me, laced with an edge that taunts me.
I find my hesitancy when I go to remove these minuscule reminders of you, how these slivers of you that
had once caused such distaste have now bloomed into an almost reverence within me.
I tell myself it isn’t a betrayal to remove them, these ghostly reminders of you.
It’s okay to clean a floor.
My logic can’t seem to alter the feelings that come from mopping your paw prints away for the last
time, suddenly it felt a lot like a sin of some kind.
I forced myself to give away all the food you never got the chance to finish, along with the treats you
loved that I really wish I’d given you more of.
I packed away all your colorful toys that I can no longer bare the sight of, and the collar I removed when
I was losing you now resides on a wooden box that’s filled with the only part of you I have left.
I tell myself you were only a pet, no one grieves forever over them...
Right?
Right. . .
Max Smee | Open Spaces | Graphite