It’s like looking at a dead, old dog. My unmade bed with his blanket lain in it. Just two days ago, his naked body slept intertwined with mine under the blanket he brought over, keeping the two of us warm where each other couldn’t.
Now, that blanket, lifeless in your bed, it’s a dead pet. It’s your family dog you adopted when you were six. You loved him so dearly, but as he crept into old age, as his face grew more grey every week, as his hips gave out, you had to nurture him more and more, mashing his food for him because his teeth had rotten, carrying him home when he tired out on his daily walks. It killed you to think of his time running out, so you took care of him as long as you had to.
And when the day finally came, you cried hysterically over his limp, lifeless body.
Then you felt relief. You didn’t want to admit it, but you knew your life would be a little bit easier. You knew you could move on now.