What She Left Behind

The morning after the funeral, I found myself alone in her apartment with a box of things her sister said she'd want me to have. Our golden retriever, Cooper, paced between my legs, his claws clicking on hardwood floors that still held the faint scent of her vanilla perfume. He knew something was wrong. Dogs always know first.

I picked up the faded fedora from the top of the box—the ridiculous wool hat she'd worn at our wedding, the one I'd teased her about for twelve years. She'd kept it on the top shelf of the closet, a remnant of her artsy phase, back when she wore mismatched socks and quoted Anais Nin at dinner parties. I'd forgotten how it smelled like her hair spray and old dreams.

The vitamin bottle was next. Prescription strength, the expensive kind her doctor had prescribed during those last months. I remembered sitting on the edge of the bathtub while she tried to swallow them, her hands shaking, both of us pretending that these little pills could fix what was breaking inside her. We'd both known better, but we'd both needed to believe something could.

Then I found the teddy bear. Not a plush toy, but a worn, well-loved thing she'd kept from childhood, its brown fur matted in places, one button eye slightly loose. She'd told me once, during that terrible year after her mother died, that some nights she still slept with it. I'd never told her I did the same with my old dog's collar after he passed.

Cooper nosed my hand, whining softly. I sank to the floor, pulling him close, letting his solid warmth anchor me. The hat went on my head. The bear tucked under my arm. The vitamins spilled across the floor like tiny white promises we'd made to each other—promises to fight, to hope, to stay.

"She's not coming back, buddy," I whispered to him. And finally, finally, I let myself cry.