Let's Unwrite These Pages and Replace Them With Our Own Words
She’s not dead, but she’s as good as gone, and you only wish you had more to remember her by.
But you don’t, and you’re frightened that one day, you’ll forget her completely; face fading into a blur as the darkness at the edges of your mind advances.
You sleep with her shirt now, trying desperately to cling to the few memories you have and conjure up from the void that is your earliest years those that you don’t. There’s a pearl bracelet tucked inside the little cubby at the back of your desk that’s invisible from the front (like a mystery, a treacherous part of you whispers, Miss Scarlett in the library with the knife), and a gold-painted hand-mirror under your bathroom sink, matching brush and comb set not far away.
They’re not much, but they’re all that you’ve got.
Two years later, the shirt smells like fabric softener, the bracelet is missing, the mirror is broken, the brush is gone.
You threw the comb away when you closed your eyes and realized you couldn’t see her face.