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In this novel the main character, Rose B. Frances is an architect and Claire is a photographer. Claire my character and I began to mirror each other. But then. Missing were her business suits and dresses. Many of her shoes and purses. Her half-empty bottles of perfume. Compelled to make photographs of these missing objects—again, for the purposes of the novel—I shopped for them online.
I bought a pink pillbox from a milliner in Odessa and linen sandals from Spain. She would have loved them. The following excerpt is from the novel, The Vanishing of Rose B. Not that I particularly wanted her here. She might want to throw everything out. But I thought about that just a little too late. Along with any memories attached to them. Every scarf.
Every pin or jacket. Something else will have entered my mind and claimed that space, the space it once occupied. Something else will have settled in, and now that scarf or pin or jacket, or plate or cup or book will be just another something that once belonged to my mother.
Where did you find it? That will be the end of that conversation, and likely the end of any memory as well. Because to speak of such things like that often renders them finite. Of her clothes and belongings. Without my talking about them to anyone who might see them, without my providing some context, what could they possibly mean?