the chaos in stagnancy

I’d like to think memory is deceitful, that it really is a good thing you aren’t home anymore, but after you left I snuck into your old bedroom just to remind myself you used to live here, you breathed and slept here, and if I closed my eyes and imagined hard enough, I could pretend you were still there, crouched over your desk or restlessly sleeping in your bed like you always were. I’d tear through your drawers just to catch a whiff of your scent still embedded in your clothing, and when I found your favorite black t-shirt, I pressed my face into the fabric and inhaled in hopes of breathing your life back into it. When Grandma said we had to clean out your bedroom, I cried as I stuffed your shirts into garbage bags and threw them in the attic. As I watched them collect dust and mice-ridden holes, I realized even the dust particles managed to find peace in the chaos after your absence. Sometimes I’d sneak up there at night while everyone was sleeping and rifle through the bags of clothing, pulling your favorite shirt out again and again, but it smelled like decay and less of you every time I did. I hoped I’d find some secret message you left for me up there, some sign of fate from the universe that this was all going according to plan, but there was none. There was only me, digging through garbage bags covered in mouse shit and wiping away tears as I watched you fade right before my eyes.