when she left

When she left her belongings were more than mine. Her old hair dryer by the mirror, her fruity lip gloss, and much of other paraphernalia. She left with a wardrobe full of clothes: her favorite pajamas, tee-shirts she wore at the gym, and the many colorful skirts. How can i not tell you about the ‘little black dress’; her only extravagance in an otherwise austere lifestyle.

Our world was shattered when we found out about it. That entire day she was morose; she shut herself up in the room and cried. She cursed the gods; i know because i spent the entire time begging her to let me in. Literally, and figuratively.

She finally did. She was hungry; i edged in to the room to ripped curtains and sore eyes. We made ecstatic love. Then, she wept. She shuddered and cried her heart out. Then we made love again.

That evening, she dressed in the little black dress, we ordered from her favorite Chinese restaurant, and danced the night away to Robert Goulet’s If Ever I Would Leave You.

Never after that were we so intimate.

This woman was a gem. When she left i knew i had lost the greatest treasure of the world; nay, of the existence. i always knew she was resourceful; but in those last few days she showed a resilience that broke my heart.

She continued doing what she did. She loved dancing, and carpentry. She baked, and she painted the house. The smell of the paint lingers even now. Those imperfect brush strokes on the corner are the only memory of her existence. All the walls are clean and bare now; her voice echoes in the spines of her books on that aspirational bookshelf.

Time ravaged her body; not her spirit. As her body became fragile by the day, my strength failed. She held me tight as i shattered like crystal in her arms every evening.

She became my pillar; my tears became her palliative. Now i think that perhaps that’s where she got her strength from. Her last wind.

Then one fine summer evening she left. She left leaving behind her hair dryer, her fruity lip gloss, and a broken me.

Image courtesy: Patrick McDonald. Used under CC BY-NC 2.0

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