Reflections

It's funny how easy it can be to detach yourself from your reality. Not in a dissociative way, the way I used to feel. But in a mental and physical way, in a true emotional separation, onto the next.

There are words my brain won’t say. Like our universal pet name that now leaves my lips as Bub or Bubby. It’s not intentional avoidance—it’s like the original word has slipped through the cracks of my lexicon into a place where I cannot access it. There are things I can’t look at. Like the lock of hair that fell from his head when the pressure reached critical mass. I tucked it into the inside of my notebook for safekeeping. But now when I see it, it stops me in my tracks, not because I am saddened, but rather scared. As if the right spell and a strand of hair could bring him back.

At the same time, there are things that surround me that have lost all sentiment. I use his signature scent without issue, enveloping myself in the green aroma without a second thought—the scent memory no longer exists. If it’s cold, I will throw on one of the few flannels I saved—there are no memories within the weaves and wefts.

But I cannot touch his knives. My collection sits in a drawer awaiting final judgment. I’ve let my hand linger inches above them, but there is an invisible force field keeping my distance. It’s not because they hold meaning—rather, his blood and sweat is hammered into each blade. They are an extension of him. He does not deserve to be embraced.