The Little Things (I Won’t Miss)

I found myself today, holding a box of your favorite granola bars, ready to check-out at the grocery story. I’d carried them around the whole store. I’d grabbed them, automatically, with you in mind — you know they’re hard to find sometimes.

But I put them back on the shelf then. I didn’t buy them. I didn’t mourn them. Instead, I replaced their spot in my cart with skim milk. Yes, skim. Not whole like you used to ask me to buy.

And when I got home I brewed coffee, and I only made two cups because I hated it when you’d make a full pot and waste more than you drank. And I wiped up the grounds that had scattered on the counter when I opened the coffee. I wiped them up right away so they weren’t sitting there on the counter.

Later I watched TV in our bedroom — my bedroom. And I turned out all the lights in the rest of the apartment because I wasn’t using them. There are no clothes thrown around the bedroom now either, so you know. They’re all hanging in the closet or waiting to be laundered in the hamper.

When I showered, I missed you. I thought about you as the water spilled over my body and the soap didn’t kill the memory of your hands on me. I missed you then. But then I saw your towel on its rod, and I remembered how you didn’t mind leaving it on the floor, on the chair, on the door. I put your towel in the closet tonight.

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