When you Google "how to heal a heartbreak", it tells you to detach from all reminders of the person once loved: clothes, photographs, letters, everything. Erase and delete, and no matter what, do not dwell. I put everything in a box, but I did dwell. The psychological intent was the exact opposite of detachment. All of the things- his wrist bands and jerseys- insisted that something had been. Had been, as a verb tense, is past-perfect-progressive, meaning what has once been can’t just disappear.

“Indeed, every time I conjure a memory from our time together, I weave words all over it. I end up reconstructing the past, justifying it. But these things, they don’t just add method to my artifact-ion, they grant it integrity. I can distort a memory; but my microwave oven and toaster will always sit there like exhibits of functional things for presents."

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They lay conjured on the ground- blue and yellow envelopes, restaurant receipts with ink lightening into paper, and dusty polaroids. They lie patiently, like they were made for a vision, a ballad. My bedroom floor became a museum for the decade we made, and the things that made us.