38 As much as I hate to think about the past, that’s all that comes to my mind. I know she was here. I know she was in this house. I know she was in this bed. I know she was wearing this shirt up until the point that you decided it looked better on our bedroom floor than it did on her body. I can only imagine how you kissed her as she wore this shirt, and how it may have gotten tangled up in her long, curly brown hair as you tried to pull it off of her. And how you both most likely laughed at how the shirt may have ruined the moment, but once that soft, red shirt hit the floor, the sexual tension vanished in thin air. I sat on the edge of our bed this morning, holding her shirt. I stared at it. I clutched it in my hands until my fists turned white. Tears ran down my face. I wanted to rip her shirt up. I wanted to rip her shirt up and throw the shreds around our room, screaming her name in anger and hatred and hurt. I wanted to scream it until the entire neighborhood could feel my pain. I wanted to scream it until they could feel my wrath and understand why I can’t figure out how to trust you again. Why I can’t look in the mirror without seeing the version of someone you used to be in love with until you met her. Why I can’t go to bed without turning towards the wall and silently crying myself to sleep because you may be picturing her naked, in our bed, replaying those memories and imagining that shirt and wishing it were her next to you instead of me. Why I can’t make myself breakfast, lunch, or supper without feeling sick to my stomach, ultimately losing my appetite after being reminded that I’ll never fit into a shirt as soft and dainty as hers. Why I can’t let go of the past without being reminded that I let my walls down, only to build them back up in the end, like the piles of laundry that lay scattered around the laundry room. It took me several weeks to work up the courage to wash and fold our dirty laundry. I’m still not finished, although the piles are slowly starting to dwindle. Each load that I gradually washed and folded gave me hope that I’d reach the end soon. But much like my trust, my hope is no more. I lay curled up in our bed with her shirt held tight against my chest.
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