Scratches in the wall

Indentations in the gypsum. Right where she liked to lay watching, fixed on the movement of the room, never missing a single shift in the light. A semi-permanent vigil.

It’s been years of seasons turning over, yet the surface stays broken. I look at the gouges and I see the shape of her laying there, even though she’s gone. A topographical map of a presence. I bought the filler and the paint, but I can’t bring myself to smooth it over. To fix the scratches is to apologise for the memory, and I’m not ready for that kind of quiet.

Tracing the jagged edges with my thumb. Is it stubbornness or just a refusal to let the surface settle? Every time I think I’ve levelled out, I find myself staring at the marks again. Just some scratches in the plasterboard. Just a way of keeping the shape of what was lost.

Maybe I’m just clinging to the damage.