The Wall

There are moments I forget she’s gone. Just for a second. A stupid, blessed, terrible second. I’ll hear a noise upstairs or think I should tell her something or expect her to walk into the room, and then reality slams back in like a truck. That double impact is savage. First the instinct. Then the correction. I don’t know if that ever stops. And the weird part is the forgetting feels almost worse than the remembering. Because when I remember on purpose, at least I’m braced. When I forget, it’s like my nervous system briefly returns to the old world and then gets punished for it. That’s grief too: being betrayed by your own hope reflex. People assume forgetting must be progress. No. Forgetting is just another trap door. Another way the mind shows how deeply the person was built into your life. Of course I still expect her. She was everywhere. So when my brain reaches for the old shape of things, it makes sense. It just hurts like hell every single time.