is it ever enough?

I pack up the boxes, loading them one by one, and the world is blurry. What I had known once was now gone, and I am lost. I lifted an old shopping bag into the trunk and a red mug, once held Ceylon, his lips, dropped, shattered. I missed that moment, when something knocked it out of its position inside the bag and midair before it hit the ground. And I left the pieces there, on the side of the road, where I had once stood holding his hands, both of his in both of mine.