The Art of Dismantling

Margaret stood in the kitchen, the cardboard box at her feet like an open mouth waiting to be fed. This was the third day of packing, the day you got to the things that didn't fit into categories—the things that were just theirs. The vitamin bottle on the counter, his ridiculous megadose regimen that she'd mocked for years. She remembered how he'd line them up every morning like soldiers: vitamin C, D, B-complex, the amber bottles catching light through the kitchen window. She swept them into the trash. Not hers to carry forward.

The cat, Buster, wound through her legs, sensing something was wrong. He was David's cat, really—David had found him as a stray behind the baseball field where they played summer league. That first date, watching him play, the way his uniform jersey strained across his shoulders, the dusty diamond and the smell of cut grass and beer. She'd kept the scorecard. Now Buster would go with David, along with the baseball cards, the signed ball, the life they'd built around Sunday afternoon games.

"You're doing it again," David said from the doorway. He looked older than he had three weeks ago, when he told her he couldn't do this anymore. "Overthinking."

"I'm not overthinking. I'm dividing. There's a difference."

"The swimming lessons, Maggie. You wanted to sign up. That's coming up next Tuesday."

She'd wanted to conquer her fear of water, the way her mother never had. They'd planned to do it together, adult swim classes at the Y, something new and mutual. Another thing that would never happen now. "Cancel them."

He nodded, looked at his shoes. "The cat's carrier is in the hall."

She watched him load Buster into the carrier, watched him walk to his car with the box of his things. The water glass she'd used that morning sat on the counter, a single fingerprint on the rim. She washed it, though she knew she'd never use it again. Some things you kept. Some things you washed clean and put away, waiting for a hand that would never hold them again.