I brush aside a cascade of soft fabrics from the door, long silk dresses and kimonos of chiffon hung clumsily, and I find a small piece of him. This piece of him is a thin film of plastic, a work in progress forgotten, painted with ink, adhered to the wooden door of the bedroom and abandoned. I brush aside the fabrics, see his strong fingers wrapped around the cylinder body of the marker, eyes and lips silent in concentration. Rarely did I take the time to watch him work, admire his meticulous manner. At one point, the door was a mosaic of these creations, scraps of plastic with an alchemy of bizarre images printed: Michael Jordan and his infamous dunk, Oprah Winfrey laughing with a cavernous mouth, Kim Kardashian sobbing and eroding her mascara, an unnamed girl with a man in her mouth and a man in her behind like some roasting pig. These were ripped hurriedly, taken. This one piece remains, hidden now by the fabric flood, and I brush aside and see his hands.
Between the pages of an old notebook filled with scribbled poems, I find a small piece of him. This piece of him is a blind contour portrait, deep blue lines on a scrap of cream paper, drawn slowly and surely, without peeking, sitting on the floor of a friend's cramped apartment. I stare at this portrait, see the curve of his jaw, a sloping of shoulders, see how happy we were that evening, bemusedly buzzed with weed, passing a joint and taking turns, taking turns with deep drags and posing for portraits. The apartment, this living room, cluttered with books and voracious plants, cluttered with our bodies strewn on the sofa and floor. First, we clutter the air with stories and jokes, with deep gut laughter, then the words become sparse, as we sit and draw our faces.
Digging through a plastic storage bin, a coffin of wool and cashmere, rushing, late for some menial obligation, I find a small piece of him. This piece of him is a soft sweater of royal blue and navy. I fondle the soft weave, see his chest, his arms swathed in the striped pattern, driving us through winding roads, windows down, wind whipping our hair. We drove and drove, westward, did not stop until we reached another state, another town, clutched hands as we strolled into the unfamiliar.
(image taken from Huffington Post)