M for Memories

She tries to remember sometimes, rather she tries hard to confirm that she doesn't remember, that it's all over now.

In the earlier days, she could... she could sense him everywhere, feel his presence in the nooks and crannies of the bedroom, hear his voice in her mind as she went about her daily chores. The hardest was the smell, the sudden wave of his perfume seeping through the wardrobe, that strong soap he used filling up the bathroom, leaving no space for her. She would go crazy turning and overturning closets and drawers, bathroom shelves and travel kits, discarding his many possessions, so she could bury the smell under mounds of her banal existence, so she could move on like he had never existed in her life.

Many months after he was gone, after she had cleaned up the house inside out, after she had verified and re-verified that there was nothing of his amidst her belongings anymore, she would still wake up with a sudden start, in the middle of the night, that smell haunting her again. The smell of his perfume, a wood and musk combo, would stifle her in bed as she tried to fight against it, suffocating her, pulling her underneath, to the cold dungeons of her mind. 

While other people had skeletons in their closets, she had elephants, and they refused to budge, let alone amble away. They were powerful, aggressive elephants, engulfing her in waves of nausea, stalling her as she walked alone down life. They loaded her mind with constant drivel, till her mind shut down, tired of fighting them, only to wake up again another day, and pick up from where it left.

Well, the elephants died eventually, though the fight wasn't easy, nor was it quick. People say time takes care of everything, and now, after eons of fighting, she doesn't remember anymore. She doesn't remember his voice or his smell, or the quirks of his language, the length of his temper, his likes and his dislikes, his walk or his snores. She tries hard, to knock down the walls inside her brain. Sometimes, she wishes she could remember a bit, a bit of his. Now, she is ready, to remember without dying inside, but it is too late.

Time has taken care of everything.

P. S. This post is the thirteenth in the A-Z blogging challenge series for April.