Before passing, Gail requested that all her friends go through her closet and keep whatever they wanted. Although awkward at first, then depressing second, the process became uplifting as I remembered the memories we shared where she wore a specific dress or shirt. I came away with four pairs of shoes (God bless her for being a size 6!), a Giants jersey that surprisingly fits perfectly, a Niners tee (the only one I own), a Giants jacket (the same one she wore on my 30th birthday), and a coral sweater.
That was the first time I went back to her room without her being there, and first time I visited her grave after the burial. For lack of better words, it fucking sucked. I wrote here about how hard that day was. Out of all the items, the coral sweater smelled like her the most. It was almost as if she just took it off and handed it over to me. Once I got home, I smelled it and instantaneously started crying into it. Afterwards, I laid it next to me on the bed and started talking to it like a crazy person.
The waterworks eventually stopped, and I began to get sleepy even though it was barely 9pm. I dozed off, then woke shortly after midnight. Still tired but not sleepy, I scrolled through Instagram until I couldn’t scroll any longer, checked Facebook, and checked for anything interesting on Netflix. Nothing. It was now almost 1am, so I started to do what I normally do when I can’t sleep and what usually works – masturbate.
Except. To my right was that damn coral sweater. I felt like it was judging me, so I turned around and proceeded to double-click the mouse. Except. I felt like the sweater was looking over my shoulder saying, “Hey Mare, what ‘cha doing?!” Exasperated and embarrassed, I took my hand out my pants and laid on my back. Obviously, there was only one thing to do …
I still feel a little ashamed that I put Gail’s sweater back in the closet just so I could masturbate in peace. Granted, if what they say is true, Gail’s soul/spirit could’ve still been in that room with me (although she would never do that lol). But to have an actual piece of her there made it all the more uncomfortable. As ridiculous as it might sound, I didn’t want to disrespect the sweater. Trust me, I’m making the same funky face you are right now reading that. Moral of the story? If you shouldn’t shit where you sleep, you shouldn’t masturbate where you weep.