If I’d died that day, the mourning would have faded by now, the sharp edge of memories dulled and bearable.

Tears dried save the occasional season, or place, or song. And the lives with which I was once so undeniably intertwined would be moving on. New days and different ways would be well on their way if I’d gone that day.

Nothing left of the clothes I’d worn or the shoes I’d left lying about. No waft of my scent or sweater on the back of the door. All would have been removed by now. It’s been a while since that day.

My body decayed, and my time passed. If I’d died that day, I would not know of the things that have happened since. The extra laughter, that scratched-up blue table, and the tears would be lost to my story. And somehow, that doesn’t make sense. Can a thing be lost if it never was?

If that day, lying on that sterile table with those blinding lights, had been my last, the sun would have risen hundreds of times since. And the moon and the stars would have canopied those I’d loved through so many dark nights and breathless blue mornings.

It’s strange how a person can be such a part of something and then not. If I’d died that day, I would be farther from remembered and closer to forgotten.

That’s all from the laundry room. Restless Sleep.

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