Saturday, August 30, 2014
I went into the bathroom, looked at it all, and realized that he had no use of these things anymore, nor would anyone else. I put the razor and brush into the trash can next to the sink, and systematically went through the house removing the traces of the last day, subtly altering the terrain to accommodate one, not two. My exhausted parents watched, but did not try to stop me.
We came home this week to the detritus of a less permanent and harrowing departure, but the after images of that other return home remained. His razor on the counter in the bathroom, his towel hanging on the hook behind the door. His tousled sheets. For a moment both realities were superimposed.
Once again I put towels in the wash, put away shaving cream and razor, and hung my robe on the door, transforming the guys' bathroom into a space for a soaking bath.
Now is not then, but neither time nor grief is precisely linear, they crisscross the everyday, crashing into each other at odd moments, in unexpected ways. Like in the bathroom.