In This Memory

That we lived in the house so long after what happened is something I'll never understand. We sealed up her room but the house itself was an altar to her presence. You couldn't walk over a creaky floorboard or see a line on a wall from one of her markers that didn't flood your mind with memories so vivid and strong it felt like a stroke. God, did we miss her.

Those first days, neither of us knew what to do. There wasn't anything to do. It was like being lobotomized. We couldn't function. At times, I could barely breathe for she had been my oxygen and now there was nothing with which to fill my lungs. I stared at my hands a lot-the same hands that had held hers thousands of times, trying to imagine her small hand wrapping around one of my fingers and then getting angry when I couldn't.

It felt better when I was angry, or at least everything else was pushed down so low I couldn't feel it. That's how I lived for a long time-angry. We fought with each other until our voices were hoarse and the words became whispers and the whispers became tears. That cycle lasted until we sold the house and went our separate ways. I moved as far away as I thought I could but it didn't help. A part of me was missing and there was no way to recover it. I would never remarry or even date again. There was just nothing left of me to offer anyone.

For many years, I went through the motions of life, but I knew, I was just an empty husk waiting for the dust to reclaim me. Then one day, I felt a tug on my heart. It was mild, barely noticeable, but immediately I knew I was not long for the world. Grief had taken its final toll on my heart. There was just one last thing I wanted before I went. I wanted to see her room again. To remember her smell. Her baby smell-her little girl smell with the scented markers she used on her arms and legs to give herself tattoos. The shampoo smell in her hair when I'd kiss her goodnight on the top of her head. I wanted to see if I could remember the sound of her laughter and the questions she asked and the stories she invented. She was so full of questions and her imagination was limitless. God, did I miss her.

I called the folks who bought our home. They were still in it. They never had kids and even though we told them it was ok, they never used that room. Maybe they were afraid it held too much sadness and that it would infect the rest of the house. Either way, I asked if I could see it one last time and they acquiesced.

"Funny," they said. "Your wife called for the same reason just the other day."

"Yeah, funny," I said.

I sold everything I had left, which wasn't much, keeping only a few changes of clothes and toiletries. I stopped my mail and utilities, broke my lease, and headed across the country. It was a pilgrimage-like the natives of old when they returned to die in the places of their birth. Only, I was going to the place where I had already died.

It was later than I'd planned when I arrived. I was not surprised to see that my wife was there, waiting outside. When she saw me, she burst into tears. It was, I think, for what she could see I'd lost and not so much for our loss. She hadn't come to peace with it, but she didn't try to spend the rest of her life dying as I had done. Probably, she was right. I hadn't honored anyone by hiding from everything and I didn't hold it against her that she'd tried to keep living.

"It's ok," I said. "It was my choice. I am glad you're here. I realized on the way that I don't think I could've gone through with this without you. And I need to go through with this."

"Me too," she said.

We walked to the door hand in hand. It was the first hand I'd held in twenty years. I could feel my breathing start to falter-this place was sucking the oxygen from my lungs like it once did.

"Let's go before it's too late," I said.

She looked at me curiously but knew enough not to ask and knocked on the door. The couple who'd bought our house hadn't changed much over the years and they couldn't have been more gracious about the whole affair. They hugged us and even they had tears in their eyes.

"We'll leave you to it," they said. "Take as long as you need."

"Thank you," we said in unison and walked into the house.

My knees nearly gave out but she righted me. "Sorry," I said and she just shook her head to say there's nothing to be sorry for. My breathing was getting worse as we neared the stairs. I had seen people on tv hyperventilate and that's the closest I can get to describing how I felt. They hadn't changed much in the house and I found it soothing. Maybe it would help me remember what I came to remember.

There's nothing actually wrong with my knees but it felt like an eternity walking up those stairs. At the top is a bathroom and I excused myself to use it. I didn't need to use it, I was just stalling. More than anything else I was feeling, I was scared. Scared of remembering, but most of all, I was scared I wouldn't remember anything. That she was completely lost to me and the thought terrified me.

She squeezed my hand when I came out and it helped to gird me against what was to come. The door that we had shut so long ago, was next.

My hand was shaking so much it lost all functionality. I could not manipulate the doorknob. She slid her hand over mine and steadied it and together we slowly opened the door.

Everything was exactly how I remembered it. There was animal fur on the floor and on many of the toys. Her drawings still hung on the walls. The toys she'd played with for the last time, still strewn about. She had been playing teacher with her barbies. Taylor, the one she called the bad kid, was in time-out. Her little clothes were still hanging in her closet. I ran my hand across them until I reached one of her favorite shirts and took it down. I held it to my face and breathed deeply.

It didn't smell like her anymore. It had been too long. But, my brain didn't know that. The place where such things are forever stored brought it to my senses as though she had just worn it. Then, the tears came. They came in a torrent, soaking her shirt. My wife put her arms around me and we cried together. I fell to my knees and cried out in anger, in sorrow, in despair. I wanted her back so badly, I would have done anything. I wanted to trade places. I wanted to never have been born. Why had I been cursed to live without her. Why had the world been allowed to go on.

I turned to my wife and took her face in my hands.

"I'm so sorry," I said. "I just missed her so much. I couldn't breathe without her. I couldn't function. I couldn't love."

"I know," she said. "I don't blame you. I felt the same way. I just knew if I didn't try, I would have died. I don't think that's what she would've wanted."

"It isn't. You're right," I said. "I dishonored her memory. I failed her then and I failed her now and I am sorry."

"You didn't fail her. You loved her more than anything else in this world and she knew that. She loved you just as much. She was daddy's little girl and that never stopped being true. You have to forgive yourself."

"I'll try," I said. "I think I'm ready to go now."

"Ok," she said.

"Will you tell them it's ok to come back now," I said. "And if they'd like, I can box up this room for them sometime so they can use it."

"Yes, we'll do it together if that's ok," she said.

"I'd like that," I said. "Please, though, I need to get out of here now."

"Ok," she said.

She closed the door behind us. I winced when I heard it lock. It sounded so final-like we finally accepted life without our baby girl. But I knew I could never do that. I knew this was the last time I'd be here-the last time I'd see her room. This was goodbye and we both knew it.