The small things stick out like rogue threads, signs of life that tampered with processed perfection.
You’d imagine after so much time what I think of when I think about you would be an image of profound meaning, like that time we went to the grand canyon after your father passed. How the sky was pink, striated with clouds resonant of ink spills, smears of stories unfulfilled. Embers from your cigarette floated weightless across the horizon, falling, inevitably as all things do, into the paradox of Nature.
No. What the shoreline of memory expels, in crashing waves of seaweed and camphor, is much more mundane.
It’s the shine of fluorescent light on grease stains left by saturated take-out on the corner of your lips; the cheap squeak of plastic slippers sliding across newly mopped kitchen floors; and, with little reason or purpose, that time we tried to see who could open a salsa jar faster. I don’t even recall who won.
Then again, I suppose such details are as futile now as they were then; mere folds uncreasing as the curtains moved to close.