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by Catherine Owen



After someone you spent almost every day with, created collaboratively with, made love to, is dead, you are constantly aware that a part of you has fled the scene of your body and psyche. You are still able to laugh and find pleasure and gratitude surges even more strongly for these small, essential graces. But of course you won’t ever be what you were. Which is not necessarily for the worse. Your constituencies of routine, memory, heart have simply, no complexly, shifted. A transparency of emotion floats regularly in your eyes. You live on; you want to live on; you want to live even more wholly than you did prior and in a committed not flighty sense, sinking into not flitting among. Yet you have suffered a phantomizing process in which a reference will exist from now on towards what isn’t.

In a recurrent return. Beloved absence. Unheimlich yes. No furniture anymore you can take for granted. No light, necessarily, left on.