Pieces of his presence stick to the apartment like adhesive, as if they are truly afraid of letting go because they know that they comprise all that's left of him. If they vanish, he too will disappear in the vast empty space where his life once stood. So it is my job - no, it is my duty to maintain these pieces day by day. To polish, furnish, and revitalize his existence; to keep him tangible rather than a memory with the potential to fade over time.
A canvas sack rests against the coffee table in the living room, filled with his books. Books he never read, but whose passages I, in the passing months, came to memorize. The Brothers Karamazov. The Beautiful and the Damned. The Heart is a Lonely Hunter. I read them all not once, but twice, hoping to find some sort of answer between the barely-worn pages, a reason for his departure that I might be able to actually understand.
In the bedroom, on the dresser, all of his hats are lined up in an impeccably neat row. His red, frayed trucker cap that he liked to wear at an angle, that I complained covered far too much of his face. The cuffed beanie hat from his childhood days that he insisted on wearing out in public, even though it was too small. The gray wool cap that I knitted for him last Christmas. Sometimes I put them on and model them in front of the mirror, marveling at our differences. Marveling at how I found him in the first place. Wondering if I’ll ever find him again.
Every day, I dust the bedroom thoroughly, afraid of dirt and cobwebs creeping into and stealing away the place we used to so intimately share. Whenever I clean, I listen to music to ward off the dead silence that hovers closely overhead. A mix CD he gave me for my birthday plays in the background, each song a slideshow of memories that often seem more vivid, more present than my actual waking life.
“There you are,” my brother walks into the room, tossing the spare key onto the bed beside me. He looks miserable; tired. Then I realize that I’m staring at my own reflection in his eyes.
My only response is a gentle humming, the nostalgic music a barrier between us. He sighs. “Of course you’re in here. Where else would you be?”
I ignore his agitated tone of voice and continue dusting, finding the long, sweeping motions of my hands across a well-known surface safe and therapeutic. On the bedside table sits a framed picture of us, and I stare at it, into our young, smiling faces, before covering it completely with my small dustrag. There are certain days when I can’t even think about how happy we used to be.
“When are you going to give up?” he asks.
I continue humming along with Stevie Nicks, my soft voice mixing with her sultry one and filling the silence.
“He met some…some girl out in
I stop humming, and sit down abruptly on the bed beside my brother. The next song tiptoes into the tension; it’s Led Zeppelin’s “No Quarter.” My eyes fill with tears.
“Of course he didn’t tell you,” he continues, answering his own question. “He didn’t tell you he was leaving in the first place, so why would he tell you that he’s not coming back?”
They carry news that must get through
To build a dream for me and you…
“He’s not coming back, Steph,” he says, the edge to his voice replaced with a softness flanked by pity. He wants to comfort me, I can tell, but he makes no move to hug me.
I wait for the song to end; it takes several long minutes. By the time it has finished, I’m standing up, uncovering the photograph, polishing its bright, glossy surface.
I can handle living with ghosts, I think, as long as they promise to never leave me.
(word count: 686)
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