Charleston Rowena Mudd

I had to do it.

The day after I went to Salty’s, I woke up in Murmur Lee’s bed and knew I couldn’t take it anymore. So I got up, peed, washed my face, brushed my teeth, fixed some coffee, put her beloved Allman Brothers on the stereo, went down to the garage, and found five empty boxes and a stack of newspapers. It was a start.

I marched myself back upstairs, stood in the middle of the room, and said, “I’m sorry, sweetie, but I’ve got to do this.”

I swiped at my tears as I began purging the house of Murmur. I began with the photos of Blossom. I removed all but one—it was of her and her mother; they were all dressed up and obviously going somewhere. I packed up all but one of the cobalt vases. I hadn’t yet sent the books off to the church or the Zora Neale Hurston collection to Lincolnville—they would have to wait. But I boxed Murmur Lee’s clothes. And I did it quickly, refusing to allow myself to linger there in the denim and cotton and linen and silk memories.

When I was done, I sat on the couch and stared at the ocean and wondered how much longer I could go on missing her this much.