This Piece of You

Step One: Choose the Door

Close your eyes.

To vanish, first choose the door.

Not all doors are made of wood —

some are made of porch swings,

of warm car rides,

of Saturday mornings

that still smell like biscuits and home.

Pick the place that’s only yours with them.

Let it rise,

like breath in winter — seen, but never spoken aloud.

Step Two: Step Inside

Do not knock.

They’ve been waiting.

Feel the floor take shape beneath you —

is it grass, carpet, gravel, pine needles?

Walk like you remember.

Take your time.

The heart has no use for clocks.

Step Three: Look Around

It may not come in vivid color.

Just outlines —

the curve of a doorframe,

the hum of a room you sat in together,

their presence folded into the fabric

of things neither of you named.

Step Four: Hear

Listen.

Is it the hum of their favorite song,

the sound of the screen door,

the way they used to say your name

like it was the answer to something?

Maybe they speak now.

Maybe you do.

Say what never got said.

Or say nothing, and let silence carry your voice.

Step Five: Touch

Reach for what you can.

The curve of their handwriting,

the flannel sleeve,

the warmth of their laugh if it had weight.

Let your fingers rest on the memory —

don’t grip it too hard.

It’s not meant to be caged.

Step Six: Smell

The scent arrives before the words.

Is it lilacs, or tobacco, or rain on the porch?

Is it cinnamon, motor oil, cedarwood,

or something only your soul could name?

Breathe it in.

Even ghosts leave behind perfume.

Step Seven: Taste

Remember the taste of their presence.

A holiday dish?

A glass of lemonade shared in the heat?

A laugh so strong it filled your mouth?

Swallow slowly.

They are both flavor and feeling.

Step Eight: Stay As Long As You Need

You are not intruding.

This is your sanctuary,

stitched in the fabric of your mind,

rooted in the soil of your heart.

Stay until the light shifts.

Stay until the ache quiets.

Disappear here,

if only for a little while.

Step Nine: Leave Gently

When it’s time to go,

don’t slam the door.

Fold the moment like a letter,

tuck it where your chest rises.

Whisper your goodbye —

or just let your presence say it all.

Step Ten: Remember You Can Return

Memory is a muscle,

grief a compass.

And love?

Love is the map that never forgets the way back.

Caution:

Handle your memories gently.

They are fragile —

and carry the endless ache of love that never fades.

Remember: to vanish is sometimes the only way home.