I use his toothbrush now for cleaning in between cracks and crevices—like the grime out of the corner of the sink, the caked-on dust on the baseboards, the grooves of the sliding glass doors where bugs leave their excrement, or whatever it is. I imagine the remnants of his presence clinging to the bristles as I clean. I swear, too, which somehow makes me feel a whole lot better.
He was a hard brusher, so the bristles were already worn down pretty good when he left without it. My guess is that he figured they’d give him one in prison.