flip-flops (2)

For a second, she thought it was Jamie. But Jamie was gone. Two years and three days. Not that she was counting. Nina had not thrown them out. The flip flops.

They were still by the door, scuffed and curling at the edges, like he might step into them on his way to the kitchen. Once navy, now almost gray, they bore the faint outline of his feet—big, reckless feet that never stopped moving.

She’ had meant to toss them the day after the funeral. Then the week after. Then she did not. They were not sacred, not really.