I don’t like that things remind me of you.

[CW: Transantagonism; violence]

I don’t like that things remind me of you.

I don’t like that my partner’s frayed toothbrush reminds me of you. The bristles of your Reach brush were always shredded beyond belief, begging to be replaced. My tended-to toothbrush neighbored yours on the bathroom counter until you left for college.

I don’t like that a trans child being murdered in a school bathroom by their classmates reminds me of you. How you didn’t want to expose your child to our queerness. I think about what might happen if your child feels safe enough to confide in you one day, if they aren’t as straight or cis as you hope.

I don’t like that the echolalia that repeats in my head reminds me of you. “Daddy is a Doodlebug.” A children’s book you once read to me on a New York City subway. We were grown, but there was something so wholesome about you reading about Daddy and his doodlebug snacking on potoodle chips, padoodling their canoe, and counting firefloodles—all in a Christopher Walken accent. Unbothered by onlookers. You’d remember this moment over a decade later and gift me with a copy for my firstborn’s baby shower. I finally had the heart to donate it recently, but the title still lives in my head on a loop.

Sometimes being reminded of you hurts so badly, I’ll sit frozen in the same position, forcing my foot into tired tingles, so it’ll numb my thoughts of you.

I wonder what reminds you of me. If you’re haunted by flashes of your own versions of frayed toothbrushes that take up brain space for a person who no longer serves you.