I changed my sheets today. I no longer enter my room and see the medley of whites, pastel blues and cushions rendered sacred by Lol’s touch. I no longer lie under the covers, breathing in a scent that has long evaporated. My single filing has progressed in leaps and bounds: with the coaching of one of my closest friends, I have thoroughly searched my room and endeavoured to remove from my sight any trace of things past. Gone are the clothes, gone are the cards and gone are the gifts including the scruffy bear I held each night that comforted me in Lol’s absence, even before he left.
In parting with my scruffy furry friend, I feared the emptiness my arms would meet when I would reach out while awakening from bad dreams in the middle of the night. But I also feared that I would wake, turn over and go back to better dreams, unscathed and unattached. It is ironic, I know. I am fully aware that when this occurs I will have shed my name and every trait that belongs to it. But until that time comes, it remains defined in my head as the day I accept the four words I dread the most: “It is over, forever.”
And so we delayed the moment, my friend and I, with the fluffiest and most girly replacement we could find. Devoid of history, I could lie on my new sheets and hold it to my hearts content. Or, I wished I could as I found out with a sharp sudden pang. It would take more than fresh linen to forget about the half of the bed that had remained too cold for too long. It would take more than replacing broken toys to stop me stretching my fingers to intertwine them with the emptiness that has usurped the position of the man who uncovered happiness for me by loving me as much as I loved him.
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