Page 104 of Endgame

I woke up feeling energized and thriving on the likelihood of productivity.

It’s taken me months to feel the urge to purge through everything. Since moving into my apartment, I never realizedhow many things I had, due to the haze I was living in. The black fog seems to be a thing of the past now, and I’m ready to tackle my neglected tasks.

Starting my morning with the breakfast of champions, I brew my black coffee to perfection and secure my Biscoffs. Whereas protein is typically the fuel most people need to get through the day, mine just happens to be caffeine and sugar, a deadly combination for a woman on a mission.

After finishing my breakfast, I decide to blast some music to ramp up my mood and weed out the excessiveness of my clothes and shoes first. My Dunks will not be touched. They’re an addiction I refuse to forfeit.

Most of my clothes are basics, graphic tees and closet staples I’ve had for as long as I can remember. I’m finding that most of the ones I refuse to get rid of have some type of sentimental value to them. It seems so silly when referring to clothes but something as simple as jeans or a sweater can remind you of a special time in your life.

Fortunately, my mom and I were basically the same size, which meant we shared everything.

After her passing, I never let myself wear anything that belonged to her. It hurt too much. But now, my grief over them is finally reaching a point of acceptance. I would give anything to smell her warm honey scent in any way I can.

I pull out the pink cardigan she usually wore.

Mom always had it hanging off the back of dad’s recliner, just in case the temperature called for it. I pull the cardigan off the felted hanger and draw my arms through the soft material. It’s a full polyester blend, feeling like the coziest blanket, but the warmth that washes over me has nothing to do with the material, but the owner of it.

God, I miss her.

Sometimes, I swear I can feel her with me. I still dreamof the apple cinnamon french toast she made every Sunday morning. I’d wake up to the smell of coffee and cinnamon filtering through the entire house. Those days I knew nothing could go wrong because those moments brought us together.

Smiling, I’m left with hope for what's to come.

I have finally startedliving,and it makes me proud of myself.

Honoring their life with my happiness is the best way to move forward. That would be their main priority if I could have said goodbye to them.

Deciding to move on, a familiar metal box catches my attention underneath a stack of blankets. I made this box in college when I was limited in space and needed a designated spot to store all my essentials. I know what I’m going to find before I even open it. I haven’t been able to look at the picture since their death, yet something about this time doesn’t feel so painful.

Unclasping the rusted metal latch—nostalgia hits me head on.

Front and center is the framed photo of my parents I took in our kitchen years ago. This was the exact moment I fell in love with photography.

They loved each other boldly, setting the purest example of unfailing love, even in their death.

At least, that’s what I’d imagine from them.

Dad would be doing whatever he could to be closest to Mom, whether in the physical sense or not, knowing she would need his comfort to be okay. He would be reassuring herIcould survive without them. I’ll always regret not being there for their last moments.

I hate myself for it.

I’m now comforted by the fact that my absence in theirgoodbye can hold no jurisdiction in the depth of their love for me.

I long for that type of fervent love.

I may have found it.

Callaway’s patience in his pursuit of me rises to the forefront of my thoughts. He’s never once given up on us.

I can call myself lucky.

After what feelslike days later, I’ve cleared nearly half of my things and filled four garbage bags with donation items. It feels strangely good to filter out the old and hopefully bring in the new.

The simple task of starting in my closet led to tearing up my apartment and loading Chevy with over ten bags of donations.

Who said being an adult was never satisfying?

They've obviously never purged an entire house of expendables and experienced a full-body orgasm from Callaway Hayes.

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