Her red scarf hung from the banister. Iíd walked by without touching it. In the past, because it annoyed me, because it wasnít where it belonged, I would have grabbed it as I ascended.
It occurred to me then, that itís the little things, like a scarf, sock, or bracelet that force you to remember, to face the fact that someone is gone. The mind seems to ready itself for the larger things, but will melt down over the small and unexpected. A photograph, for instance, doesnít quite knock you down like finding one of her socks under the bed.