Yesterday, you were erased.

I was given an enveloppe with two pieces of paper stapled together. For a good reason: it was a sign of respect for my ancient need for secrecy. I was appreciative of the gesture, without a doubt.

I knew what was in the enveloppe as soon as I read the note on it. My eyes welled up and I wasn't even sure why for most of the day.

Then I realized - that's all that is left of you : a small enveloppe with a note on it. And you're being expunged.

They could have thrown the enveloppe away. Shredded it themselves. But they didn't. They left it for me to do.

So I shoved the enveloppe in my drawer. Because I can't do it. I've forced you away enough as it is.