The incense sticks are nibbled down by orange embers, and the smoke is thick in my throat. Smoke dissipates up toward the mantle, where the ashes are, between two candlesticks. The left one is burning more quickly. Tears are on the verge of cascading down my face, but I hate crying in front of people.
A year on. I can pretend nothing’s changed during the week, but the silence on Skype every weekend is overwhelming. A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon the last messages he sent. Nothing super special, but they were his words. The messages are old though, and the damn Internet has probably deleted them.
Now I understand why people still call just to listen to their loved one’s voicemail. Why they scroll through their social media feeds, why they keep the emails. Even the clothes.
We cleaned out the closet, Nye Nye and me, and hauled a trunkful of clothes to Salvation Army. Driving away, I felt like I was leaving a small piece of him behind in the blazers and shirts I had placed in the bin, left to warm in the blazing, muggy heat of summer.
The candles are extinguished, but the haziness of the incense remains, lingering, a memory. We embark on year two without you, but that doesn’t get easier. The world still turns like nothing has changed, but I think of you every day.