Words: Charley Carter (they/them)
The remnants of him are strewn around my bedroom: the poster from the gig we went to (my first ever), the book of poems he annotated for me, the necklace he gave me, the envelopes I bought to write to him. I took the pictures of us down, but he is still here. To remove him entirely from my life would be to strip it bare.
When I wake up each morning, a poster made by a boy I don’t speak to anymore hangs above my bed. He made too many, and asked if I wanted one. The top right-hand corner is torn, a scar from taking it off the wall when I moved far, far away from him. The remnants of him are strewn around my bedroom: the poster from the gig we went to (my first ever), the book of poems he annotated for me, the necklace he gave me, the envelopes I bought to write to him. I took the pictures of us down, but he is still here. To remove him entirely from my life would be to strip it bare.
But there are others here too: my bedsheets are my mother’s, and so are half the clothes in my wardrobe. The bedsheets she bought when she lived in Edinburgh, in a flat like the one I live in now. My favourite boots were hers, like the handbag I take clubbing, and the earrings I wear every day. I wonder if I wear them the same way she did. People always used to say we look alike, but I don’t think so. Sometimes I think we don’t have much in common, but I rest my hand on my face the same way she does. I inexplicably keep bread bags instead of throwing them away. I take my tea the same.
The necklace I always get compliments on belonged to her mother, who I don’t remember.
My books were birthday presents, Christmas presents, and impulse buys based on conversations I had 3 months ago (‘She would like this’). 2 books on literary theory from my old boss, when she heard I was going to study English Literature. A book on crossword clues from my grandparents. My 18th birthday present: The Oxford Book of Quotations. It sits on top of my wardrobe, next to thank-you cards – some from people I will likely never see again, but we still follow each other on Instagram.
My father’s influences are all around me, and every day I see some quirk in myself that I know comes from him. When I laugh, when something shocks me, when I make a bad joke – I see him. We have everything in common, and after walking home listening to the music he introduced me to, I rewatch his favourite TV show. Under my bed is a pile of unfinished cryptic crosswords, which I watched him do every evening until he taught me the rules. We are reading the same edition of the same spy novel together, turning the pages in unison, 300 miles apart.
When I say ‘WHAT!’, emphatic, incensed, I hear the friend I spent 2 years of college with. I don’t speak to her enough these days, but she is here in my sense of humour, in my fringe, which she cut for me this summer, and in the sequel I saw without her the other week. I don’t like nuts – I never have – because my sister has a nut allergy, but I eat salt and pepper cashews because she offered them to me once. My favourite wine is one she bought on a whim, and now I buy it almost exclusively. I like sauvignon blanc, because it’s what my mother drinks. It’s what we were drinking the day I cried into her shoulder over the boy I now no longer speak to. He didn’t like wine, but I am always trying to make hot chocolate the way he did.
I wear long skirts and a scarf because of a woman I saw on the Tube. I buy whole milk instead of semi-skimmed because my flatmate likes it more. I have a Waterstones tote bag because I saw a girl carrying one in a lecture last year. When I put on lots of eyeliner, I think of him.
There are parts of me that are parts of them as well. We are woven together. They are always with me – the ones I love now and the ones I loved then.
