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.