Remember

Nelson waits at the foot of the ladder as i climb the last step to
paint the ceiling. When he barks for my attention, I soothe him with a
shush and keep on painting smooth, generous strokes, just like you
taught me.

The place is still empty, apart from the TV, the sofa and the boxes
piled next to the French window. It's so green outside.

I'm wearing your overalls.

Every day at five PM, Nelson and I take a walk down to the grocers,
where I buy a bottle of Coke and cigarettes. The hardest part is buying
the cigarettes; asking for one pack instead of two, looking at the
counter and seeing your favourite Kools. Remembering their taste on
your breath.

In the back of the closet, your baby blue shirt is still hanging.
Sometimes I stand there in the dark, and if I stare real hard, I can
make out your smile. I haven't washed it since, but your smell is
starting to escape me, just like the five PM sun.

Sarah comes over every Wednesday and we watch 'Sex And The City', lying
on the rug you bought in Chinatown. She tells me I'm looking much
better these days, I've lost the yellow around my eyes. She says I'm
starting to shine again.
I'm not sad, really. I just feel funny painting our new place on my
own.

I can't listen to David Gray, not just yet.

Your jazz records lie in boxes next to your French window. Sometimes I
can see you sitting there on the sill, smoking your Kools, scratching
Nelson's head and telling me about Prague last summer.
You were so beautiful.
Now you lie sealed in these boxes, and I still don't have the courage
to open you up.

We argued for two days over the colour of these walls. I wanted cream
peach, but you fought for baby blue with your usual hardheadedness. You
always got your way with me, all you had to do was hook your fingers
around my neck and press your nose against my cheek. That's all it
took, and you had me.

The sofa came last Tuesday, cream and soft with the big cushions you
fell in love with. I don't want it anymore, the cushions sink me in,
and I feel small. Without you, it's not much fun.

The kitchen shelves still have the twelve brands of coffee that you
bought last December.
I remember it was three AM, we were drunk, and you pulled me into the
24-hour store. We skated with the trolley down the deserted aisles till
we reached the coffee corner, and you developed a sudden thirst for
Columbian coffee.

I tried Mocha Cream two days ago, but I burnt my tongue and left the
cup in the sink, the way you always used to. But there's no fun in a
bad habit if I can't share it with you.

I'm sorry I shouted so loud, I'm sorry I said that baby blue is
cotton-candy-like. I don't care about the colour anymore, you know I
always let you have your way.
Now I'm painting the walls baby blue, in the hope that you can see me
do it, and come back again.

Every now and then I check on Nelson to make sure he's OK. He's so
quiet these days.
Sometimes, when he thinks I'm not looking, I find him in front of the
door, watching the handle and waiting for it to turn.
The first month, I used to join him. I'd sit there and stare at the
door till he'd lick my cheek, and I'd realise that hours had
passed.

I hate these sealed boxes. They remind of the line I have to cross
sooner or later.
Either I open your boxes, or I send them down to the basement. I just
can't keep on keeping you sealed like this.

It's almost five PM, Nelson needs his walk.
I'm thinking of switching to Kools.

I paint long, silky strokes. Blue over blue.
Cotton-candy-like.

I don't understand.
They tell me to live again, to send the boxes down to the basement, to
the back of my mind.
They tell me to forget.
But your last words were 'Remember'.
And remember is all I can do right now, out here on my own.