When
it became obvious that I wasn’t going to vomit again, I looked
up from the dirty sink into the mirror. It was pretty much
useless to me at the moment, as my vision was so blurred by
tears and emotions that I couldn’t visually separate myself from
the bathroom in the reflection. I closed my eyes, and
immediately hated myself for it. Every moment my eyes were
closed during the past week, her face was there. I might not be
able to decipher between my form and the urinal on the back wall
in the mirror, but Molly’s visage was as clear as ever. Not the
Molly that left me, but the Molly I married. She was in her
wedding dress, with the white veil atop her carefully curled
blonde hair, and a smile in her eyes that said she was happy. To
me, that wedding picture, the one that I kept on my nightstand
despite her objections, is the epitome of everything that is
beautiful.
It had been four and a half
years since that picture was taken, and I had never had a
negative thought about it…until a week ago. When I got home
from the office, there was a note waiting on the kitchen
counter. I read the first sentence before scrambling to the
bedroom to find Molly’s dresser and her side of the closet
cleaned out. She had been planning this and I hadn’t realized
it. She had spent the entire previous week “spring cleaning,”
but she was really just running a mental checklist of everything
she wanted to take with her. She had cleaned house in more ways
than one, and with her dresses and skirts and bras and blouses
she had remembered everything…except to tell me where she was
going.
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