remembrances

he took out her letters and photos - the ones he'd been carrying around for years, the one she'd sent in her last letter, and the very first, cellophane-wrapped family photo - and began tearing them to shreds with his large, powerful fingers. on tiny shreds of paper he recognized words he had read hundreds of times, words that had made his head spin. he watched her face, her neck, her eyes, her lips, all slowly disappear. he was working as fast as he could. when it was done he felt better, he felt as though he had eradicated her, as though he had stamped out the last trace of her, as though he had freed himself from a witch.

he had lived without her before. he could get over it! in a year or so he'd be able to walk straight past her without his heart so much as missing a beat. he needed her as much as a drunk needs a cork! but he understood all too quickly how vain all these thoughts were. how can you tear something out of your heart? your heart isn't made out of paper and your life isn't written down in ink. you can't erase the imprint of years.

he had allowed her to share in his thoughts, in his work, in his troubles. he had allowed her to witness his strengths and weaknesses...

and the torn-up letters hadn't disappeared. the words he had read hundreds of times were still in his memory. her eyes were still gazing at him from the photographs.

his head was full of clamouring grief, his insides were on fire...

"my dearest, my little one, what have you done, what have you done, how could you?"