There's things missing. The volume of Yeats that is always on my bedtable. A lone stiletto from the top closet shelf. Replaceable, but they bother me. I tend to reach for Yeats at odd hours and it's just not there. The shoe I can manage without.
Today I saw a rainbow over a billboard that read "Banshee" and I had to laugh. I would have taken a picture, but my phone was being repaired (unsuccessfully, too.)
Walking through Hollywood in the rain, a young man at a bus stop asked me for money.
"All I need is a shower," he said.
"So do I," I replied.
Which is only partly true. I take baths. I have not been able to take a shower since after Chester died. He came to the shower every time I was there and made a small sound, and I'd open the door or curtain and he'd turn, lay on the floor, or in the hallway outside of the bathroom. The first time I took a shower after he died, I had a panic attack and had to get out. I went to my local beauty salon to have my hair washed.
Sleep evades me. Walks soothe me. I try and cover the silence. I threw the clock away.