It's a near-impossible task to clear the space where a person has been.
It's near-impossible because you can:
remove the flowers from the windowsill, half-wilted but sun kissed nonetheless.
You can dispose of last night's leftovers,
pour the last dregs of tea from the cups and wash them out,
sit them right back on the shelf where they always go,
you can put the photo albums away in the back of the drawer.
You can even shove everything they ever gave you in the attic,
throw it away, avert your gaze when you see something they would love in a storefront window.
But you can't ignore the reason you're crying
or the helpless feeling. A need-to-be-velcroed-back-together sort of feeling,
or that fact that, for once in your life,
you're praying to whichever god will listen,
trying to express the feeble hope that they're in a better place
to someone who might have some control.
And yes, they say a heart that's broken is one that's been loved,
and yes, something that's broken is not the same as something that's unfixable,
but have they lived the aftermath?
Have they dealt with the careful putting away of things that they loved?
Of having to continue down the road alone,
without that hand on your shoulder,
those fingers twined through yours,
that gentle voice in your ear when you felt like you wanted to claw your way through the world,
tearing up everything that stands in your way, savage and unapologetic.
You just hope she likes it, wherever she is.
You just hope she's happy.