In Their Footsteps
You think you're prepared.
You go in with boxes and garbage bags. You tell yourself you’ll be strong.
But then you open a drawer.
And their handwriting is still on a notepad.
Their scent still clings to the sleeves of that sweater you begged them to throw out every winter.
Their shoes are still lined up by the door like they might be back any minute.
You find yourself sitting on the floor, holding a shirt to your face, trying to memorize a smell you know is already fading.
You whisper “I’m sorry” to objects you tuck away in boxes.
You fold things neatly like you’re still trying to take care of them.
You pause before tossing something out, because what if that was their favorite?
No one tells you how loud the silence is when their closet door creaks open.
No one tells you how heavy an empty coat can feel in your hands.
No one tells you that cleaning out a space can shatter you all over again.
It’s not just cleaning.
It’s letting go of little pieces you were never ready to lose.
It’s closing a drawer for the last time and feeling like you’re betraying them.
It’s packing up the life you shared, while your heart silently begs, please don’t make me.
Because deep down, you’re not just packing away their things —
you’re packing away pieces of yourself too.
And you’re terrified of what’s left when all of it is gone.
