Raindrops against the window

The old music box is still playing our little song, with a bit of wear on the gears. I still wind that thing up, especially every night at 8:13—the exact time you left me, darling. It is funny, the little stupid details the mind latches on to. Some will be helpful, as I am sure there is a time and place when I will want to remember everything about you.

You would hate what they have done to our little café. That café on Crestwood with the wobbly tables that were flopping about like an old lady with a limp? God forgive me! I remember you would always try to stuff sugar packets under the leg of the table to make it steady, and I would just laugh at your determination. They've made it into one of those new smartphone repair shops, which is as bland as it sounds and has flickering fluorescent lights. Good progress, I guess.

Sometimes I still find myself buying two coffees. Standing at the counter, like a fool with an extra cup that no one asked for. The barista, who is a kid with green hair and friendly eyes, never says anything about it. Just looks at me with that look. That “oh sweetheart …” look that makes me want to crawl into the ground or space to get under the floorboards.

Your sweater is still in my closet. The blue one, with the hole in the left elbow that you got when it got caught on Mrs. Dougherty's fence. I remember that summer, when we swiped apples from that tree. You said they tasted better, climbing the fence and breaking into some lady's yard. The sweater had lost your scent. I checked it last Tuesday and accidentally sneezed.

Mom called again. She's going to make me "rejoin the living" and stop wandering around like some stupid, forbidden sign that says 'ghost' on it. Does she think death has an expiry date stamped somewhere that I just don't know about? She just doesn't understand that breathing sometimes feels like an Olympic event. She would never understand that sometimes, the memory of your infection laugh that morning in the kitchen - with the bacon frying, and the radio playing that stupid "Mattress Blowout Sale" jingle that you knew all the words to - would hit me so hard that I had to sit down, where I was.

The rain sounds just like it did back then, like morse code against the windowpane. Like it is sharing secrets, I still can't decode. I place my palm against the glass, feeling the cold surface, and watch as the drops race against each other. You always put your money on the wrong drop.