She comes to me in snatches—I remember pieces of her laugh, the look she gave when she was upset. Sometimes I sniff the bottle of perfume of hers that I saved, but it doesn’t come close to the robustness of her smell. It is her, flattened. This is what it’s really like to lose. It is complete and irreversible. How pernicious these little things called memories are. They barbed me once, but now that I no longer have many of them, I am devastated.
