Parts of a WholeBy Amilcar John Nogueira
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Since the breakup, Amnesty kept finding the pieces of Abel that he left behind: a pamphlet on Reiki; a broken shell necklace lodged between the bed and the wall; smudges on the wall from when he searched for the necklace; a collection of crafts he made for each anniversary, one month, two months, six months, one year, two years, three years, four years; two copies of the Mormon Bible, one from the time the Mormons came door-to-door, the other from when he went to a church meeting; a broken phone; an envelope stuffed with his business cards; a broken laptop; her extra set of keys; a broken picture frame he promised monthly to fix and reset on the wall; his glasses case; his toothbrush; a bottle of gel for long downtown nights; a crack in the washroom tile where he dropped his electric razor while shaving; an old bottle of cologne that he received as a gift from his grandfather with a musk she hated but would never tell him that she hated; a collection of soaps from local hotels as reminders of the nights they had spent there; tiny hairs along the sink where he last shaved; an electric razor; a large fluffy towel he would hang on the balcony to air out; a few potted plants he didn't have the green thumb to grow, basil, oregano, thyme; ashes from joints left inside a Coca Cola can; an empty Coca Cola can; eleven filled Coca Cola cans, one in the fridge; kombucha, which she would never drink; a glass bottle of organic ginger ale; nut butter; coconut oil; hemp seeds; fresh strawberries; leftover Ethiopian food; homemade garlic sauce from their attempt to make falafel; a fridge magnet with two cats on it, holding up a receipt for Ethiopian food; twenty-seven dollars for Ethiopian food, thirty-four dollars as a contribution to some birthday presents for a mutual friend, thirty-nine dollars for a monthly parking pass for the street outside the apartment building, all in five crisp twenty-dollar bills left in a bag in the freezer with his passport; an abundance of ice cubes that he would make and store in a plastic bag to always have ice; a frozen pizza; a table that he bought for her where they had the talk, where it felt as if the table was growing longer and longer and they were separated by a giant chasm of who they were, who they used to be, and who they might become one day; clothes, shorts for sports, pants for work, a sweater that she had claimed ownership over, but now thought Goodwill might appreciate, at least one nice outfit for when he would inevitably ask friends to come downtown and grab a drink, extra shirts, boxers, the tie from his grandfather's funeral thrown haphazardly behind the dirty-clothes basket as if he was hiding the memory, hiding the tears he left in her sheets, and creating a sudden pause when he reached for his phone to call home; his absence, which could be felt in every deep breath in and count to four and deep breath out, where he wasn't, where the possible sound of laughter or a snore was replaced by the static of the standing fan in the corner, where each room felt as if it was more open-concept, where each window was now thrown open to remove this absence and replace it with fresh air, but this didn't help her breathe; a journal she wouldn't read; a movie she always fell asleep during; a Netflix account she still had yet to remove from her tv; glass rings on the end table by the loveseat; a rip in the loveseat from the first time they argued, when she mentioned she was eyeing some new places and they restarted a conversation he hadn't wanted to restart, one about moving in, about the plans for their future, and instead he started digging into the fabric of the couch, pulling away small red strands, and, after a long silence, changing the conversation to the possibility of travel that would never happen, perhaps to Finland or Nigeria or even to New Zealand to see the birds and the fish, if they took some time to save up during the next year they could definitely make a real trip out of it, and she stopped crying because at the time, it was easier to believe in the possibility of some future when it felt like the failure of this conversation was another step apart; scrapings of mud on the door mat; his “unseen life force energy,” as the Reiki pamphlet might describe it; a set of weights he used; the weight of him in all things around her, if that energy could be described, it felt as if it was in the very wood of the floors, as if they had soaked up his movements, as if the sun had taken a part of him each time and the heat it brought was from him, as if walls pushed in and out, in and out sensing his disappearance and trying to find where he had gone, when he might return; the small things, change, lint, scrapes, scraps, and scratches, sand, dandruff, nail clippings, stray hairs, plastic pieces, pieces of paper with jotted notes; a small figurine of a bear he had given her from when he introduced her to his grandfather, after a family dinner with all seven siblings, both parents, and his grandparents, and she had survived the barrage of questions, concerns, and comments from everyone involved, when they had driven back to her place and Abel was happy that his grandfather had liked her, approved of her answers and her jokes, of the way she held her own in each conversation, even though she felt like one more question would make her burst, and he had snatched a small figurine of a bear he had found in the basement that she might enjoy having, perhaps place it by the bed or by a window to remind her how she was as strong as a bear because you'd need to be as strong of a bear to fend off Abel's family, she smiled and took the figurine and placed it by her bedside, right next to her photos of herself with her family from when she was younger; gag gifts from the stag-and-doe’s they would reluctantly attend; used gift cards with $0.12 left; holiday cards addressed to the both of them, but that neither wanted; an old credit card he used as a bookmark; a dent in the chair by the bookshelf where he used to read until he fell asleep; a blanket they shared during movies but only he would sleep with, leaving behind traces of him; a box that he had used to bring things over in, a box that she was now filling with his things that could be returned, the things that he might miss the most, the things he had already asked for; and echoes of words that they once shared, words she no longer wished to think about.
Amilcar John Nogueira is a poet and settler from Windsor, Ontario. They received their M.A. in English and Creative Writing from the University of Windsor. Their short story “Felix and the Light” won the 2018 Canadian Authors Association Niagara Region 10 Stories High Contest. Their poem “A Picture Story” won the Inaugural words(on)pages Blodwyn Memorial Prize. They are one of the co-founders of ZED Press.
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