The workshop where I keep the hole

I'm standing in a garage that shouldn't exist anymore, and the hole in the wall is just there — not a wound, a doorway I forgot I made. I'm holding the same spoon I used to stir his coffee, and somehow it feels like a tool now, not a relic. I sit down beside the shape of it and I don't try to fill it in. That's the whole dream — me just sitting there, breathing with it.