I open my eyes and loosen my arms from around her. With a soft curling of her head, Eleanor nuzzles into my chest, nearly asleep.

I couldn't do it. I couldn't let her go.

I stay, seated on the floor, cross-legged, well past the point of numbness, until she’s grown limp and heavy with sleep in my arms.

Rolling to the side, I lay her down gently onto the floor of her room. Reaching into her bed, I grab a pillow and lift her head so I could slide it under, followed quickly and quietly by a blanket that I drape over her.

I lay down next to her, watching her breathe in and out as I massage feeling back into my legs.

Looking around I observe the shadows and the stillness of her room.

“Are you there?” I ask, but Veronica doesn’t answer.

And perhaps she never will.

Had she ever answered me? Was all of this a delusion? Had a really tried to will Eleanor away from me?

The reality of those thoughts sink in.

Was the fragility of my mind so willing to readily accept the existence of the supernatural or the multiverse?

Perhaps it was.

Was I really so broken that the only course of action was to abandon Eleanor?

Perhaps I was.

I think about Father Matthias, his visit, and the words that he had shared. Perhaps it was time to forgive myself and let go of Veronica and the guilt I had placed on myself.

Getting up, I cross the hallway to my bedroom. Turning on the lights I go to Veronica’s dresser and open the drawers. All the evidence of her still remains there. Picking up a t-shirt, I put it to my face and inhale, breathing deeply what my imagination tells me is her scent, even though I know that it’s long gone.

Veronica would always tell me that I smelled good. Even after I stopped wearing cologne and switched my deodorant for a natural, smell-less crystal she would still hold me tight; breathing in the manly mustiness of my scent.

Early on in our relationship, she used to steal my t-shirts and take them back to her apartment to sleep in. For one of her work trips, I made the grand gesture of wearing a shirt for two straight days without showering before sealing it in a ziplock bag to accompany her. It was a treasured prize and I remember how pleasant she looked in it when she’d video call me at night from her hotel room.

Veronica would always ask me for my opinion of her scent. She would try different perfumes to see what I liked most, but besides having a dislike for the ones that made my nose itch, I really had no opinion. My nose wasn’t connected to my other senses and since it functioned independently, it didn’t care. Unless, on the occasional mornings, when Veronica rolled over for some affection and exhaled heavily an unpleasant smell.

I never expressed this to her, though, probably making her feel less desired than she was when I’d turn to deflect a kiss to my cheek, or worse: turn away completely.

Such was the pattern of my life with her: hold back, don’t share, detach.

I have to do better.

I drop her t-shirt to the floor and begin emptying out the rest of her dresser.

There’s no thought or emotion to it. It becomes a task; this action of purging her from the room. The pile grows and before long I begin to question my methodology. This wasn’t the most efficient path. So, before I move to the closet, I run downstairs to grab a few trash bags before changing my mind and collecting all the reusable canvas grocery bags we have lying around the house. I begin shoving her clothes into the bags, trying to fit as much in them as possible. I hear for a brief moment Veronica’s nagging voice, telling me that I should fold the clothes, that it’d be easier for the volunteers at the donation center, but I ignore it. All that extra effort would go to waste as the volunteers pull the clothes out, sorting it into different piles, before hanging or arranging the clothes in their own fashion. As I move to the closet, I don’t even remove the hangers. Certainly the volunteers at the donation center will have some use for them. I roll the dresses, shirts, dress pants, and other vestments so that the hanger is tucked inside the folds of the clothes and then those too get stuffed into the canvas bags.

There’s some vestiges of memory as I do this. As devoid of thought I want my actions to be, I can’t help but think of Veronica in these outfits. The memories, more like the fluttering of thoughts, are mostly negative; the unspoken thoughts I had whenever she wore something I didn’t like. I wasn’t that into fashion. I just had opinions that I never voiced.

She had a red and white horizontal-striped shirt that she wore during times of year when it wasn’t okay to look like a candy-cane. There was a long-sleeved shirt she had bought for a date with a larger than necessary opening for her neck which allowed her to bare her shoulder. I normally would love the idea of a bared shoulder—one that exposed the mole that I so dearly loved—but on her it wasn’t as sexy as she had intended. Most things that she bought and wore in order to be “sexy” she couldn’t pull off in my mind. A big piece of that was because she didn’t have to don a certain piece of clothing to be sexy.

The times where she was most desirable were unintentional. It was the moments that she owned the room: talking with friends, recapping her life in an entertaining and gesticular fashion, or just talking with me one-on-one about national news or politics. It was in those moments where she was in command and showing her strength of self that I wanted her most.

It was in those moments that the true nature of who she was—her most ideal self—shone through. It didn’t matter what she was wearing—although nothing never hurt—but it had to be something authentically her. I always thought that the outfits I despised most were the ones she bought after seeing it online or in a catalog. A photoshopped model wore it, it looked sexy, so she bought it, but it wasn’t truly her.

But, like most times, when it would have been appropriate to have communicated it, I left that sense of attraction and desire unspoken. It was easier that way. It was all in my mind, but I felt that if I shared what I was feeling, she would respond with a “Why?” and then I’d be out of the moment, having to justify my feelings; feelings that I never felt completely sure of. Why did I feel that way? Was my opinion wrong? Were they good or bad feelings? Was I good or bad for having those feelings? It was only in retrospect that I understood that Veronica needed to hear those feelings from me, if only for her to know that she was loved and desired.

I have to do better.

In the downstairs closet, closest to the front door, I find her ancient puffy imitation-down jacket. Early in our relationship Veronica had asked me if there was something she wore that I didn’t like. Without hesitation I named this jacket. There were probably more offensive items of clothing and, so many years later, I can’t remember this particular jacket’s offense. Perhaps it was how it had no form to it and it made Veronica look like a purple marshmallow with limited moveability. Perhaps it was how its stuffing was made out of some sort of material that didn’t insulate well and she was always complaining about how cold it was. Regardless, I don’t remember the exact details and regardless of my objection, she still kept it as her primary winter coat.

Into the canvas bag it goes.

Probably five years ago, maybe seven, Veronica finally stumbled into a sense of fashion that was her own. It was a brand that she fell in love with that made her look effortlessly feminine, womanly, and with the birth of Eleanor, motherly. It was part pioneer and part modern woman; relaxed and well-worn; earth tones and soft, rugged natural materials. As her closet grew with these clothes, they became her everyday look. Even after Eleanor was born she wore their clothes—especially their dresses until the pants fit again. Thankfully, she didn’t let herself slip into a postpartum sweatpants slump. Taking the time to put on something she felt herself in helped her manage motherhood easily.

Motherhood was effortless for Veronica and I found her desirable in that too. Her body filled out in all the right spots when she became a mother. Breastfeeding hadn’t hurt her figure either. Even after Eleanor was weaned and her breasts shrunk, they were still an object of my attention during our often interrupted sexual explotations.

But I never told her those things.

Into the bags those clothes go.

My thoughts turn from these memories. I have to do better, I remind myself. It becomes a mantra: I have to do better. I have to do better. I have to do better.

I hear the bedroom door open upstairs. I’m surprised that I don’t immediately think that it’s the visage of Veronica checking on Eleanor again, but then, with that thought, I start thinking that it could be Veronica.

But when I turn, it’s Eleanor, determinedly stomping down the stairs.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” she says.

“Okay,” I tell her.

“I drank a lot of water and I have to go so bad.”

She sounds a bit embarrassed, but I can tell, looking into her eyes that she is worried I might be mad, so she is trying to be cute and funny.

“It’s okay,” I say. I take her to the bathroom and she hops up onto the seat.

“I have to go so bad,” she tells me again.

“You did a great job listening to your body,” I tell her as I hand her a folded piece of toilet paper to wipe herself with.

“Thanks,” she says, hopping down and stepping up to the stepstool to wash her hands.

“You should pull your pants up so you don’t trip,” I say.

She yawns into a laugh. “Oh yeah. Thanks.”

We head back up to her room and she climbs into bed, lays down, and closes her eyes. Within moments she’s asleep.

Back downstairs, I survey the pile of bags sitting by the front door. It feels like there’s too much. Something should remain.

There could be a day, years from now, when I’m going through our digital photo roll, showing pictures of Veronica to Eleanor. In one picture Eleanor would see her mother wearing something fancy and ask inquisitively, “What happened to that article of clothing?” I would go to a secret door in the house, pull it open and remove a box. Opening the lid, there would be a time capsule from her mother.

I grabbed the bag of the pioneering modern woman clothes and started to unpack it, folding each piece with more care than I give my own wardrobe. Finding an empty plastic tub, I set them inside along with Veronica’s jewelry box that contains all of her earrings, necklaces and bracelets.

Down into the basement it goes to be uncovered at another time.

I’m tired.

I think it’s more from the weight shifting in my chest; away from my heart, letting me breathe again.

When something has been hanging over you for so long, it’s hard dissociating from that sensation, but when it’s gone, it’s gone. And so is Veronica.

I have to do better. I have to do better.

I’m going to try.