6.11

I found, deep in a box somewhere (I'm sure), some small piece of us. My mind is crowded with "where is he now" and "does he still think about me" and the soft, evil whispers of "I'll never love again." But I'm the one who left him, aren't I? I deserve to be alone in this.
I hold up the piece of us to the light. It's smaller than I remember, though maybe it has shrunk in the dry of the box. I can practically see through it. It wasn't this transparent, then. It felt deep with mystery, then. I cup it in my hand as I walk about the apartment. It is light. I remember when I put it away, it bowed the shelves and I had to put it on the bottom with the atlases and geode collection, and even then it had a gravity. During the earthquake, you already know which bookshelf didn't fall. But that was years ago.
I take it now and put it out on the counter. It still holds its shape, but it's not perhaps the same as when I put it away. I can't look at it, so I do the dishes with it near me. I carry it into the next room and try to read a book. It's still there when I throw the book down, restive. I heave an enormous sigh.
There's an old specimen frame in the garage. I take out pins and spread this old remnant as flat as its crinkled edges will allow. I hang it in the entry above the console. It no longer mocks.
Picking up my keys, I go out. It will be there when I get back.