The Things We Keep

Charlotte tells me she’s leaving. Just like that. No build-up. No ominous music. Just a sentence dropped between letters and parcels like it’s nothing more than a change of shift. I blink at her. Not because I thought she’d be here forever — God no. This place chews people up and spits them out like misdelivered, slightly damp envelopes. But Charlotte? She always felt… fixed. Like a Victorian doorframe — slightly crooked, full of character, but solid. Reliable. “Funeral director,” she adds, as if that clears things up. Of course it does. Because nothing says new beginnings like professionally handling the dead. I nod, slowly, trying to make my face do something supportive instead of what it’s currently doing — which is hovering somewhere between confusion and mild betrayal. We met on Bushy. That beige, ever-expanding purgatory of new builds that seem to multiply when no one is looking — like mould with planning permission. Blink and there’s another cul-de-sac.Another identical door. Another soulless box pretending to be a home. We hated it. Give us Victorian any day. Crumbling brick, crooked windows, ghosts in the plumbing — character. That’s where we clicked. That, and the fact Charlotte is somehow both twenty years younger than me and about forty years older in spirit. An old soul in young skin. And I liked that. Trusted it. Leaned into it a bit, if I’m honest. More than I realised. Charlotte’s rucksack is, frankly, a medical facility. Black. Dinosaur-patterned. Cheerful in a way that feels slightly threatening. Deceptively innocent for something that could probably stabilise a small village during a zombie breakout — or at the very least, a standard Tuesday on delivery. “Never know when you’ll need it,” she says, as she pulls out — —plasters (three varieties), —antiseptic wipes, —actual antiseptic spray, —paracetamol, —ibuprofen, —something herbal that smells like regret, —and, of course, the wet wipes. Packets and packets of them. Industrial quantities. We once used them to wipe down the van when she clipped a bollard with it. Like that would erase the event entirely. As if the bollard might just… forgive, move on… book itself into therapy. “Evidence,” she’d said, scrubbing furiously. I’d laughed so hard I nearly walked into a hedge. So when she says she’s leaving, I feel it. More than expected. More than I’d like. “Here,” she says, already halfway into her bag. “I’ve got you something.” Out comes a wooden box. It’s… beautiful, actually. Intricately carved. Proper craftsmanship. The kind of thing you’d expect to hold something important. Etched into the lid: Amanda & Charlotte I pause. A bit much, I think. A touch… eternal, for a job that barely offers a pension. “It’s lovely,” I say. Because it is. And because sometimes the truth is… too much. “A place for our memories,” she adds. Our memories. I picture them. Her nearly being eaten by a dog named Princess. The bollard incident (RIP, bollard). Lunches in that ridiculous miniature hut in the kids park, knees jammed up to our chins, eating the same Tesco meal deal like it’s a ritual we’re too tired to question. It doesn’t seem like enough to fill a box. And yet — suddenly — it feels like far too much. “I’ll miss you,” she says. We hug. Our first hug. It’s awkward. Limbs unsure. Postie jackets crinkling like a multipack of ready salted. But then something shifts. I stop overthinking it. Just… lean in. Let it happen. And before I know it, we’re both crying. Proper crying. In the yard. Two grown women in uniform, unraveling slightly while the world continues to scan parcels and reverse vans around us. “I wish you all the best,” I say. “Oh, I’m not going anywhere yet,” she laughs. “Few weeks.” A few weeks. Which, apparently, is the exact amount of time it takes for someone to become a memory. She leaves. Just like that. And there’s a space where she used to be. Not a loud absence. Not dramatic. Just… quieter. Like a radio station that’s lost signal — just static where a voice used to live. She doesn’t text. I think she might. First day done! You’ll never guess what happened! I embalmed someone! But nothing comes. It’s fine. I’ve got Barbara. The plant. Charlotte gave her to me because, apparently, I’m the queen of plants. The plant doctor, if you will. Whisperer of leaves. Resuscitator of the half-dead. (Although, for the record, I cannot keep an orchid alive for shit. They sense weakness. They die out of spite.) Barbara sits proudly on top of my fridge, thriving in a way I am mildly suspicious of — perky, hydrated, smug about it. I water her like she’s a shared responsibility. “My Charlotte plant,” I mutter sometimes, as if that makes it official. Every time I see it, I think of her. Wonder what she’s doing. Whether she’s elbow-deep in someone’s final chapter. Then one day, in town with Mum — who is determined to dress me like a disco ball with commitment issues — I see her. Charlotte. “Well that’s… something,” Mum says, holding up a sequinned dress with a slit so high it’s practically a confession. “Oh, this one’s nice,” I say, reaching for something — anything — more wearable. But the dress doesn’t move. Because Charlotte’s hand is still on it. “Charlotte!” I beam. Her face drops. Just for a second. Then she smiles — but it’s wrong. Thin. Polite. Like I’m someone she used to know. “Got to go,” she mutters. And she does. Leaves. Just like that. Again. I stand there, hand still hovering on the hanger, feeling… ridiculous. Because across the shop, she’s already laughing with a group of friends. Radiant. Lighter. Like Royal Mail has been peeled off her entirely. She looks… better. Happier. Like I belong to a version of her she’s already packed away. “Who was that?” Mum asks. I hesitate. Then shrug. “Oh… nobody.” I take the long, scenic route back. Sunlight filters through the trees. It’s one of those annoyingly perfect days that feels personally offensive when you’re not in the mood for it. And then I see him. Leaning against a wall like he’s been there all along. Jeans. No T-shirt. Gold chains resting in chest hair like they’ve got nowhere better to be. Dad. Dead fifteen years. And yet. Here. “Dad?” I say, because what else do you say? “Fancy seeing you here,” he replies, like we’ve bumped into each other in Tesco. I laugh. A short, confused sound. “You look sad,” he says. Of course he notices. He always did. I open my mouth — to explain Charlotte, the shop, the box, the… everything — but the words feel too small. So I don’t. “Here,” he says instead. And then — without hesitation — he yanks a tooth from his mouth. Just… plucks it out. Clean. Casual. Like it’s nothing. “For that memory box.” He drops it into my hand. It’s warm. Heavier than it should be. I stare at it. At the absurdity. At the fact I’m holding a piece of someone who isn’t supposed to be here. And when I look up — He’s gone. Just like Charlotte. Just like everything, eventually. I stand there for a while. Holding a ghost’s tooth in one hand. And nothing in the other. Thinking about the box. About what goes in it. About what doesn’t. Because maybe that’s the thing no one tells you — The box isn’t for the big moments. It’s for the scraps. The bollards. The wet wipes. The lunches in tiny huts. The almosts. The almost-lasts. The parts you don’t realise matter until they’re all you’ve got left. When I get home, Barbara is still there. Of course she is. Unbothered. Thriving. Reaching towards the light like she’s got it all figured out. I look at her. Then at the empty space beside her. And I realise — It’s not that Charlotte left. Or Dad. Or anyone. It’s that I’m still here. Holding on. Collecting things. Trying to make them stay. I put the tooth in the box. Close the lid. And for the first time, I wonder — Not what I’ve lost. But what I’m refusing to let go.