165 : i saw the sun rise

I was in a charity shop this morning, and I had a Take That album in my hands. I don't listen to Take That - they were yours. I turned the box over in my hands and I remembered you, dancing along to it whilst I laughed gleefully from my perch on the kitchen counter. I remembered you with your arms in the air, shimmying your hips whilst I bent double, tears streaming. 
I bought the CD.

And in a way, that makes sense to me. It makes sense that I have pieces of you left around my house. You were a part of the furniture. You were in the ginger beer that my Mum bought because it was your favourite, you were in the photograph of the three of us that my brother still keeps on his desk because he loved you, too. You walked into my life, and you moulted your personality all over the place. And we clean, but we'll never get every trace of you out of our lives.

What surprises me are the random bits of knowledge that you left behind. I realised the date the other day, and my first thought was that it was your cousin's birthday. And I remembered your step-sister's favourite ice-cream flavour, and your uncle's shoe size, and your younger brother's favourite class. He left school two years ago. And these things just drift into my head, and I wonder when I'm going to start forgetting them. I wonder when I'll forget the address of your older brother's flat, the breed of your first dog. There's so many memories here - I don't have anywhere to put them down.