I'm a natural sceptic, but right now, I'm a heartbroken sceptic in search of something— ANYTHING to make me feel connected to my Carrie, and so when today, in the middle of my living room, this candy wrapper fell, seemingly from the ceiling, it felt like a sign. Carrie used to buy these for us every year, because she loved white chocolate, and I loved Reese's, especially the holiday editions. (Better chocolate to peanut butter ratio in my opinion.)
And so, for a moment or two, I'll push aside my scepticism, and enjoy what really may be no more than the serendipity of a messy, cluttered apartment in dire need of cleaning, and a recently repositioned fan.
Except...
That's not really how it happened, is it? No, but the truth is far less magical, and we all love a good story, so I won't tell you the truth, about how the thing that actually fluttered to the living room floor was a crumpled, twisted receipt from Duane Reade that had likely been sitting on the sideboard, and that the candy wrapper was introduced when it stuck to my bare foot as I walked over the detritus that's still thick on the floor on my love's side of the bed where I hardly ever go, because I'm afraid to disturb any more remnants of her presence in this apartment, but it's dark and cloudy outside, and I needed to turn on her lamp.
I won't tell you any of that, because it's sad. And we all like a good story. Something to cling to in an unstable world.
And so, we'll stick with the story that the special wrapper, with the ghost on it was conveniently positioned on some high shelf, perfect for my love to send fluttering to my feet, just to let me know she's still here.
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