One way ticket to heaven

That was the year you died. So you aren't expected to know what happened after that. I stopped living. For a while. That was but expected.

I gave away your shirts, the worn ones and the not worn ones. Your watch stopped. Again. You'd forgotten to change the battery. Your sandals were in really bad shape. I kept them. For a while.

Your books... they took some time deciding what to be done with. I still am deciding what to do with them. For now, they stay amidst my books. They must've been confused, parting from known neighbors. We all had to live different, now that you'd died.

I gave clear instructions that I not be let know what was done with your armchair, writing desk and typewriter. Now I wish I'd kept them. But then I also wish you'd lived longer.

You'd given away your bike. Not that you knew you were going to die. You'd have told me, we never had secrets between the two of us. And once, when the young boy who got your bike rode past home, I ran to the balcony, forgetting you'd died. I think I cried that day. For a while.