Missing you. In unexpected ways. I went to grab your toque this foggy morning on my way out of the house and my hand stalled in the air, remembering too late that your stuff isn’t here anymore. I keep boiling water for two. Buying too much food. Whose going to eat all these damn grapefruits? Forgetting takes so long. I traded the big, empty bed for a smaller one that reminds me of a time when I always slept alone. Subconsciously, I leave room for your car, your shoes by the door, space at the desk. You’re gone, but you’re still taking up space in this house. On Monday, I turn down a cup of coffee with a friend, because we always made dinners on Mondays. We used to. You teased me about my forgetfulness mercilessly, and now I couldn’t forget if I tried. The irony. I could never remember your birthday, always off by one day, but now the memory of you standing at the kitchen sink whistling is so vivid it feels like I get the wind knocked out of me every time I round the corner and you aren’t there. You, legs stretched out in front of the fire, one hand at the back of your head, reading Atwood like it was oxygen, like something you needed a daily ration of. Don’t go. But you can’t stay here, either.