The day she left him all is crystal clear in her head. She can recall every single detail. The color of his worn out socks, midnight blue, the blooming of the white peonies on the living room table in the rounded glass bottom vase, the bread crumbs from that morning’s toast still resting on the kitchen counter. The pile of books on the stairs, Dickinson and some other Russian author she could not pronounce the name of, the crisp white sheets on the unmade bed, her favorite fountain pen lying on the hallway floor, probably dropped the night before as she had rushed out for some last minute errands. The umbrella from the same night, still dripping from the rain outside, the gorgeous renowned painting hanging slightly crocked in the dining room. How they had fought about whether or not to buy it. A true art lover and collector viewing it as a once in a lifetime chance presented, an investment, a piece of history and heritage versus a realist, who tried to see the beauty of art but could never put her head around the true value and depth, the reason for spending almost a lifetime’s savings on some color on paper. She had succumbed one day and through the years had come to appreciate its beauty. She remembered the newspaper, its black and white bold print, headlines speaking of the previous night’s bombings of some country far away.
Yes, she recalled everything, every unimportant detail. The only thing she could not make out to see was her own face. She remembers catching a glimpse of it in the hallway mirror but her reflection was blurred. Her mind will not cooperate, neglects to recall. Was she smiling? Had her freckles started to show as the first signs of summer? Had her tears from before caused her mascara to run out, crying black tears? She was certain she had felt something, certain her face and body had reacted, but her memory of it is weak, barely existing. Perhaps it is her mind’s way of saying it is of no importance, who cares. Forget the bad memories and carry with you only the good ones, resting assure that the memories will remain just that, simple pictures, simple recollections of events. Carefree soul, you are free to move on now. She is not there anymore, she is not the she she was that day. And somehow, someway, she finds comfort in the thought. She is fine with not recalling. Acceptance has played its part.