This was written in February 2001
It's been 2 1/2 weeks since you left. I have to describe your room, how it looks, smells, and what's still in place, because I know in the next few weeks I will slowly start removing most of your things. Not because I want to forget, but because when I look in there I still expect you to come home. I haven't made your bed. Your clean clothes are folded at the bottom just like always. There's half a cigarette in the ashtray. I look at the carpet on the floor and remember when you brought it home from Anthony's. You were so excited. Now you'd have carpeting in your room. Your wallet and keys on your dresser. The faint smell of cigarettes and your cologne. Earplugs here and there. The fishtank and mom's TV. The spider webs hanging from the ceiling. You said they were your air filters because the dust collected on them.Your alarm clock sitting on the bedpost, your fan taped to the other bedpost, so I wouldn't be tempted to move it. A paper bag with your micrometer and supplies, which I searched frantically for that day and yet there it was right under my nose.
We were doing some free writing and we were asked to describe something. This is all that I had written. So if you are looking for an ending to this there isn't one. Sorry