What We Leave Behind

The clippers buzzed against my skull, and with each pass, another clump of brown hair fell to the bathroom floor. Three years of growth, three years of letting it grow out because she'd said she loved running her fingers through it. Now it pooled around the sink drain like dead seaweed, and I felt lighter. Cleaner.

"You're really doing it," Marcus said from the doorway, holding two beers. His own hair was thinning at the temples, something we'd laughed about in college when such things felt decades away.

"She's gone, Marc. It's been six months."

"I know." He stepped in, careful not to track hair onto the bath mat. "Just feels like you're erasing her."

"Maybe that's what I need."

We drank the beers sitting on the edge of the tub, watching the last of my hair collect in the trash bag. Marcus had been the one who found me that night, the one who fielded the calls from her mother, the one who made sure I ate something every day for three weeks. Friend was too small a word for what he'd become, and yet too large for what we'd been before. Everything had shifted.

"The dog still waits for her," Marcus said quietly.

"I know."

"Every morning. By the door."

"I know, Marcus."

Buster had been her therapy dog, some shelter mix with anxious eyes and a coat the color of burnt toast. I'd wanted to return him to the rescue after she died—it would have been easier. But Marcus had talked me out of it, said the dog was grieving too, said we needed each other, said all the things that sound profound at 2 AM and ridiculous in the harsh light of morning.

But he was right. The dog did wait. And I did need him.

I ran a hand over my bare scalp, surprised by how sensitive it felt, how exposed. "She hated shaved heads. Remember?"

Marcus nodded. "Called them 'gentleman melanoma farms.'"

We laughed, and it felt like breaking something.

"You think she'd recognize me now?" I asked, and the question was smaller than I intended.

Marcus set his beer down on the tile. "She'd recognize you. She always did." He paused. "Even the parts you tried to hide."

Outside, Buster barked at something in the street—a squirrel, a neighbor, the mail carrier. The sharp sound broke through the bathroom's heavy silence. I stood up, rinsed my head in the sink, watched the remaining stubble swirl down the drain.

"Ready?" Marcus asked.

"Yeah." I met his eyes in the mirror. "Let's walk the dog."