The haunting of a hairless house and a spotless floor
Brittney Trickey
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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. . . |
Open Spaces | Max Smee | Graphite
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