The week after he died, I took out my box of my ceramic sculptures. I removed one and set it on my beside. It’s still there. It was the first sculpture I ever made. Its amateurishness had always embarrassed me. The clay figurine is a person with their head tilted to one side.

I pick it up, exam it, rubbing my thumb over it. I never would have admitted to anyone, but I’d felt such thrill making it.

I’m starting to lose the intimacy of my memories. Most of my memories have stopped feeling like my own. I don’t believe them wholeheartedly the way I used to, and they don’t carry the same heft they once did.

It’s sad. It’s sad how I live. Isn’t clarity supposed to come with age and experience? If I had more time, I could make changes. I could learn more. I could work more, paint more. I could be better than I am. That’s what I regret most. Knowing I could have been a better, more accomplished painter, but now it’s too late. It all comes down to not having enough time. I wish I could go back.

I turn the lamp off. Unable to fall asleep, I start quietly humming to myself, a lullaby.

I feel like I’ve barely slept. My lips are cracked. I touch them with my finger as I walk into the living room. I’ve left the TV on from the night before. It’s muted. I sit and turn up the volume. It’s loud. I squint at the screen. It’s a nature show about insects and other small creatures.

“Little, old honeybees. We take them for granted, but they’re actually smart enough to engage in mathematics,” the announcer says in a deep, soothing voice.

I watch as a tiny bee extracts pollen from a red flower. I stand up, walk back to my bedroom, and rummage around in my closet until I find what I’m looking for: an old set of oil paints. I can still hear the TV from in here.

“Bees understand math and can even solve simple puzzles based on elementary arithmetic….”

I never understood math. It’s just not the way my brain works. It’s a whole world I could never inhabit.

The case is dented and dusty. I hold the set in my hand for a moment, wondering how long I’ve had it. I sit down and open one of the canisters. The paint has dried and is unusable. I haven’t painted in years. I lean over and pick up one my paintings in the corner, leaning against the wall.

It’s an unfinished portrait, one of the last I worked on. I don’t recognize the subject. Who is this person? Someone I must have been close with. A childhood friend? I don’t feel any connection to this piece anymore. Nothing.

How can that be?

Another day come and gone. Another night to endure in my bed. A soft, almost imperceptible knock on my wall. Just one. It’s a delicate knock, but it startles me. How many days has it been since I’ve been hearing these sounds? Two? Three? A week?