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coping (more or less) 193 Double Sinks Roselee Blooston Every morning in our master bathroom I confront the fact that Jerry is gone. All I have to do is look at his sink: no toothpaste scum, no sprinkle of facial hair from his beard, goatee, or mustache. My husband couldn’t make up his mind what look he wanted. The closer he got to returning to the Middle East, where he worked on and off during his last three and a half years, the more likely he would attempt to grow hair on his face. He had none on his chest, a characteristic he attributed to his Native American heritage. The absence of the tiny quarter inch shavings cuts to my core. We used to bicker over his messiness. I’d give anything to have the evidence of his living, breathing self spackling the basin next to mine. Instead, there is an empty bowl, pristine with disuse. During the first few weeks after the funeral I would remove one object from his sink area every day: first the toothbrush, which I tossed, then the comb, and the soaps. I kept the old-fashioned shaving brush that he loved. I always enjoyed watching him lather his face with shaving soap from a wooden dish. It brought back the delight years before, of watching our toddler son gaze in awe at his father’s mundane, manly ritual, and then sit on the closed toilet seat of our apartment bathroom, in serious grown-up mode while Jerry covered his smooth little face with cream and handed him an empty razor. The two of them would proceed to “shave” in slow, rhythmic strokes until all the white foam was gone. I’ve tried to take over Jerry’s side of the bathroom. I’ve filled his wicker container with nail polish remover, air freshener, and bath powder. I’ve stored toilet paper and tissue boxes in his cabinets. I’ve emptied his vanity drawers, thrown out prescriptions and extra razor blades, put the men’s cologne’s on my son’s bathroom counter, keeping my favorite—the one that reminded me of his freshly shaved cheek—in the cabinet below my sink. I’ve only opened the bottle twice. The familiar scent is unbearable. 194 the widows’ handbook Every so often I actually use his sink to wash out my swimsuit or other delicates. But most of the time—unlike the bed, where I have gradually drifted center—in the bathroom, I stay on my side. After all, there’s my sink the right one, and his sink, the left one, the one he left. The sink, the drawers, the surfaces where he so carelessly tossed his glasses or small change, remain bare, their clean emptiness the void that now is him. ...

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