I'm Not You
March 30th, 2022 Dear Nandini, She doesn't know I hear her in the early morning hours, crying for you. They don't know I hear their hushed chatter, whispers surely after a poor night's sleep -- haunted by your dream-time visits. Everything these days reminds us of you. The songs on the radio, the heels in the store -- their height, their shape, their color. The gifts you gave me over the years -- the clock, the aquarium too. The clothes you left behind, your favorite foods -- all of it brings us back to you. When I'm home, I pass by your room a few times a day. No replaced furniture or paint job could ever wipe the memory of the disheveled, smoke-scented, cigarette-stained carpet, the lavender walls, or the pile of empty bottles underneath your bed. I'm still reminded of what I was wearing that night I stood between the door and you as you tried to leave -- the liquor store not too far by car. I remember the night you came home at 2 -- I awoke to hear the clatte