Memories

Four

In my hand is a broken glass but I will still hold on tight.

"Mr. Miles," the man in front of me spoke with his voice laced with weariness as a small sigh escaped his lips. "Do you really see her?"

It was clear that he didn't believe in me. He wouldn't have asked three times if he did.

"Yes." I answered him with my eyes on you though I knew he was looking at me and it was rude of me to act this way.

But I couldn't look away. Not even for a split second.

Because you were back.

And I was afraid.

That you'd slip through my fingers if I were to take my eyes off you. Even for one second.

"What you're seeing is just a form of hallucination. It is logical since she had just passed away five days ago. I'll--"

"No." I cut him off, my stern voice surprising him, and even me.

An uncomfortable silence settled between us and I started to feel guilty. Because I knew that I was making this hard for the therapist.

"She's not a hallucination." I sounded desperate but the words flowed out of me smoothly, almost like they were the right thing to say.

The silence returned and the voice within me resonated so loudly, I could no longer care about everything else.

Was I being unreasonable?

I was just denying the truth.

We both knew it was impossible.

But I just wanted to wish, to hope and to believe.

That you never left.

That you were still here.

Even if, just for a moment.

"Well then, will you tell me more of what you saw?" The therapist's deep voice softened and the gentleness that came with it, soothed me.

"She's there." My voiced cracked when I replied. "She really is."

Am I trying to convince the therapist? Or am I deceiving myself into believing? The answer was obvious but I chose not to accept it. So instead, I answered his question.

"She's in the kitchen." I stared at you and my eyes followed you around. "And now her hands reach for the tap and turn it on."

Yet, no water flowed out of it.

I frowned at the unusual sight I was seeing before continuing, "She walks back to the dining table and carries something back. Oh. I think it's the plates."

The therapist hummed, "Do any of these actions remind you of anything?"

"Yes. She does that every day. Always showing her back to us, busy preparing our meals and cleaning up after."

Always. But not anymore.

My stomach rumbled. It had been a day since I had last eaten. I had never really starved. Because no matter how forgetful or how unresponsive you were, you never ever let me go without food.