We Drank Wine
June. The sound of his voice, things he would say. I wish I could freeze them so that I could thaw them out now and again. I know, she says. Me too.
May. I tell her I feel a place now, a place where there was something before. A place, like a room, where the wallpaper has been taken down. Maybe there is a broom standing in this place, or a bucket of paint, maybe above the window there’s still a curtain rod that hasn’t been removed, but nothing else. Now I want to smash this place, this almost empty room. I read that there is such a thing now, I say. You can erase sites in the brain: permanently rip out almost empty rooms. There is a professor named Elizabeth Loftus in California who can do that. The professor says that memory is suggestive, subjective, and malleable. She asks if I have opened the package. I take a drink of courage and open it. Inside, there is a silk scarf of his that no longer smells like him. I still remember how he smells. When I try really hard, I can still smell him. The scarf does not smell like him. I place the scarf very carefully on the spot between the broom and the bucket of paint, and then I hang it on the curtain rod instead.
April. Daffodils, pansies, and forget-me-nots are growing there now, she says on the telephone. Daffodils, pansies, and forget-me-nots are growing on him now, I say. When I come again, there won’t be any more daffodils, pansies, and forget-me-nots. Then there will be roses and ivy, she says. I ask if that’s all she’s interested in—fucking flowers. Or fucking stones, I scream.