Yes, I remember. I remember that night in Florence when you compared us to a vase. A cracked one, one that had been knocked over and shattered into tiny pieces.
There were tears streaming down your face and for some stupid reason I was happy that it was dark so you couldn't see mine, but that just makes no sense. Sort of like how Iused to assure you that just because we could hear my parents in the kitchen, there was no way they could hear us having sex upstairs. That was the teenage boy in me talking. Now he's pretty quiet.
How could he not be? One of his last memories of you is you choking on your own words, gesturing with outstretched hands at the floor—telling us that no matter how hard we try to put the pieces back in place, the vase will never be the same. I don't know if I knocked it over, or if I didn't catch it, or if I didn't help you put it back together, but you were right either way.
We could be other things though. Things that are easier to put back together. Things that can't break.