That ease in conversation—it left the second Will got a text message. He said it wasn’t important, and it probably wasn’t, but that disruption was enough to bring everything that is our reality right back to the table. The wall between us is back. It was never really gone, but it was nice to know that, for a few minutes at least, I could ignore it.
My father is spending the day at the Swim Club. My mom is at city hall. She’s a councilmember in Knox, and her passion is rebuilding the city’s youth programs and parks. Unfortunately, she’s the only councilmember under the age of sixty-five, so she’s usually the only one willing to put in the extra hours to make calls for grants and sift through research from staff. The mayor applauded her when she made the commitment publicly, but also told her she’d be working on it alone.
“I’ve already done this for my kids. It’s your turn now,” he said. Never mind the fact that her kid—me—is all grown now, too, so that argument really doesn’t hold much water. He’s just making an excuse to be lazy.
With both of them gone so much, it leaves me here in an empty house. It’s been good for my training because I run or binge on Netflix while I pedal on my dad’s stationary bike during the middle of the day. I can’t call Holly until odd hours because of her classes and hours at the hospital, but we’ll text sometimes.
Idle time is my worst enemy today, though. Maybe it was seeing Will, talking with him. Or maybe this is just one of those things I’ve needed to do for a long time. Closure comes from a lot of acts. That’s what my therapist drilled into my head before I quit going. No amount of therapy is going to heal the wound left behind when the love of your life gets ripped from your heart, but maybe I can get some relief from it for just a little while. Perhaps closure is a thing.
My mom’s step ladder is barely tall enough, so I end up stepping on the lower shelves of my old bedroom closet to steady myself enough to reach the dusty box, still taped shut, pushed high near the ceiling. A layer of dust cascades down on my eyelids when I finally reach it, and I wipe my face with my shirt as I cough my way back to my mattress bed.
Mom wouldn’t let me throw these things away. I hated her for it, but I’m sort of glad right now. I might change my mind when I rip the tape away and look inside, though.
I dig my dull nail into the taut tape along the edge, near the lid, sawing for almost a minute and finally making a tear that rips completely. I flip the lid without giving myself a chance to back out, and I’m hit with the worst immediately. The photo on top is from Christmas Eve. It’s one of those small Polaroid ones. Evan is cradling me, and my head is slung back with laughter. His handwriting spells out TRUE LOVE ALWAYS on the bottom. He liked to tease me with things like that, like our love was out of some high-school yearbook or some teen-movie special. He ran out of room for the ALWAYS, so there’s an arrow pointing to the back of the image where he finished writing the word. I laugh as I turn it in my hand and read it. I also wipe away my tear.
I breathe in deep and hold my lungs full, my eyes focused on the layers of photos, notes, and memories in the small shoebox in front of me.
“Closure, huh?” I whisper to myself, lifting the next few photos and spreading them out on the sheets in front of me. The feeling that rushes over me is not what I expected. I don’t cry, other than that initial tear, and I don’t feel a shock or surprise or pang at seeing these photos. I feel the same dull ache that’s always there, constantly there, and with every new photo or note or memento I pull from the box, nothing changes. I think it’s because I see every single one of these memories in my sleep. They’re with me always. And seeing them laid out before me in the flesh, it’s just more of the same.
As I pile the photos back into the box, a thought occurs to me. My smile—it’s so bright. Every single photo of us as a couple, my teeth practically glow. I hold the one of me laughing in my hands, close to my face, and I can almost hear the sound I made. Before I realize it, I’m smiling at the image. The ache is there, but the visual—it’s made me happy. I am glad I didn’t throw them away.