I slump to the floor of my one bedroom apartment. A plate of half eaten spaghetti states at me from across the room. It hits me. He didn’t even balk when he packed his things. No tears. No perceived error in his judgment. A mound of dirty laundry he left taunts me from the corner. The diamond he placed on my hand so many years ago. I thought he was the catch of a lifetime. My fingers trace dried cake batter that had dripped onto the stove at some point. I reminisced of how he would sing in the shower, off pitch, tone deaf. I had to break out of this funk. Get back on the ball. But in that moment, I saw his favorite wind up toy among the lineup of trinkets he left. I snapped. Recklessly, throwing everything left behind into his dugout canoe in front yard, I proceeded to strike the match, and watch it burn. It warmed my heart to watch those flames lick, lap up, and consume his worldly belongings, like his absence had consumed my soul.