REPLACEMENT — a fiction

It is not her eyes, her button nose or the patch of hard skin where the wedding ring rubbed against her palm

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I would be lying if I told you I never think of her. But it is not her eyes, her button nose or the patch of hard skin where the wedding ring rubbed against her palm that I think of. It is not the energy she gave the room nor the way she would laugh at ridiculous words. It is not her pale grey, beat-up, L-reg Corolla with its piles of sweet wrappers and drinks bottles beneath my feet. It would be unfaithful of me to suggest that was all it was; that my limits of memory are the limits of my fidelity.

You have asked me about her. What was it you loved most? I have stare into the distance, trying to avoid the truth in the most beautiful way for you. Each time, I resort to ignorance; claims of complete detachment; memory failure. Anything but the truth.

And so I have no idea if you really know, if you see through the cover. Sometimes I wish I could be more open with you — let you know of everything I left behind; let you know of the gaping hole left within me.
It was the moment I told her about you. It was the way she looked at me — the incredulity of it. No hatred — just surprise. Surprise that I would give all that up for something so ephemeral. Amazement that the temporary would so easily replace the permanent.

Maybe in years to come you will know. Maybe your look of surprise might not be as unexpected as hers. Maybe you can forgive whatever injury I have lined up for you.

But for now, you sleep and I dream of her.