Remnants

The very last time you were over at my place, you drank some water from this one glass and then set it on my kitchen counter. I left it sitting there. I left it there even after I washed all the other dishes. I didn’t want to wash it because I didn’t want you to be gone. It was a remnant of you. Physical proof of your presence in my life. I finally did wash it, but I studied it for a while first. Did your lips leave a mark? Did it smell like you? Could I feel your energy if I placed it against my cheek? Hear your breathe if I cupped it against my ear? I did wash it eventually. Very carefully, terrified that I’d drop it and shatter it in the sink.

There are other remnants. Ones I could never as easily wash away. That color that reminds me of that one day with you. That smell that reminds me of your laugh. That dog that reminds me of your smile. A word that someone says that reminds me of all the beauty you gave me. Those remnants are the most powerful ones, because they also remind me that I’m capable of love, and worthy of it as well.

Part of me hopes those ones stick around.