My refrigerator is a mess. It's almost been eleven months since I bought the cheese, almost nine since it expired, almost seven since you died. The cheese for the Paprika Pie, you were supposed to teach me how to bake. It doesn't stink, you know. It's just there, wrapped in plastic, 'authentic greek Feta'. I just don't have the heart to throw it out, and so it stays.
It's almost frustrating how your death affects me. In the most mundane of things, the shattering finality of it. The stabbing invasiveness in every moment I experience, the beautiful ones, the tragic ones, every place I go to. You will have none of that, nothing. Every future photograph will find you missing.
But today's about cheese. While I'm away at work, my roommate decides to clean the refrigerator. When I return home, I find the cheese in the garbage. 'You...', I say dumbly, 'you... threw the cheese...' 'Yes, duh!' comes the almost irritated reply, 'Do you NOT look at the expiry dates or what!'