People say it’s the smell you try to hold on to. The smell of a person. Clothes. Blankets. Cushions. After they’ve gone. Of course this is true. I’ve lived through it. What’s less noted is the way voices come and go. The first time I realised I could no longer wholly recall your voice, after a couple of years or so, it was terrifying. I felt ashamed. To only have this faint echo of something. And then it came back strong. Sometime later. Suddenly. You were there. We spoke. And then you went again.
You come in waves, tidal remembrances.