The apartment is stripped of its live blood. The menthol smell that gave me pause every time I opened the door has long faded. Her presence is gone. Not even memories linger.
The couch sits empty of the big pillow that cushioned her aching back. Fox no longer blares on the television. The dining room table has assorted papers, receipts, documents full of details no one is interested in. There won’t be any Sunday coffee and cake at the table again. Family pictures that lined the hallway are gone, mostly. Isn’t anyone going to claim that faded wedding photo with bridesmaids dressed in mint green?
Now that the Persian rug is gone I see yellow stains on the carpet. Can’t remember if that was the reason she purchased it, to cover the stains. I know she always wanted a Persian rug, but no one else does now.
People come to buy the dining room table. Special occasions were celebrated here with food she made, for over 50 years. Now the buyer comes and the room is dark. I forgot that the lamps are gone. But we manage and now the walnut table will be used for small boys and their Play-Doh.
It’s not her apartment. It is devoid of her. We are our stuff. It defines us. The smells, the objects we’re used to seeing, the sounds, the pattern of the couch.
I liked sitting here Christmas Eve. I don’t like sitting in this soulless apartment. It’s hollow.
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