I still smell smoke.

I still smell smoke.

You don’t notice it at first.

Maybe you were hunting for it with flashlights and police dogs, or maybe you weren’t looking at all. Either way, it arrives as a realization that it has been there for a while.

You take a shower, and halfway through you remember how difficult this used to be. And you wash off a bit of the guilt you carry. You see yourself wet and naked in the mirror, and your head is quiet. And you have never been more grateful for the silence. You remember plans you made with friends tonight and, while a pit forms in your stomach, you don’t feel the overwhelming urge to cancel. When the night is over, you feel tired and a bit drained, yes, but also happy and a little less alone.

You are better, not perfect.

Sometimes you will still stub your toe on the baggage you haven’t quite found a place for in your brain. You will walk the halls and hate how unfamiliar this house seems. How it’s decorated for a version of yourself you’ve barely just met. Throw a vase. Watch it shatter. Be a toddler who is happy because at least now something is different, even if nothing is better.

Be upset because the healing came quietly and you wanted answers. And apologies. And a reason. Be upset because: where’s the freaking closure?

Your house burned down and, yes, it’s nice to have a new house, but it’s not nice that everyone is acting like this is the house you always lived in, when it looks nothing like the old one. And you want to tell all the new people you have over how important the other house was. How there would be no this house without that house. How you can barely remember where the bathroom is here, but there you could have gotten around with your eyes closed. But you don’t want to sound like a crazy person, obsessed with the architecture of a place that no longer exists. So you swallow your past, and try to speak like the owner of this house.

Someday this home will feel like it belongs to you. You’ll burn toast in the kitchen and smile as the smell reminds you of what lived here before.