She no longer wants the ability
to recognise a young face that appears
only in framed photographs and amateurish
digital video clips. She has donated
all his comic books piled up beside
his teenage pillow, T-shirts and model
ships; but she has not yet had the determination
to get rid of his toothbrush (too many
times he wetted it and pretended
he did brush his teeth), facial towel
and the almost empty bottle of anti-dandruff
shampoo. True, his existence is now confined
to the washroom at the end of the apartment—
once she steps in, the conjured illusion
that he is still alive sometimes comforts her,
but mostly she understands, too well,
that she doesn't want to be fooled.