I look for him in the morning, when I wake up. I watch for him before I get out of bed, before I move off the couch, before I leave the dinner table. Still, I save my food for him. He is still here. I can still see him. He follows me down the stairs, to the kitchen, to the bathroom. He lays next to the couch, on my bed, by the front door.
I can’t bring myself to move his bed from my room, or move his medicines from the fridge. I can’t stop myself from looking for him when keys jingle. I can’t stop hope from seeping into every part of me.
This house is not the same. It’s not my home. It’s won’t be again for a while.
Eventually, my mind will settle. Eventually, it won’t hurt so bad. Eventually, new routines will form. I will be able to sit on the couch alone again. I will be able to move without saving a space for him. I will not read aloud to him. Eventually. But right now, he is here. He is woven between the fibers of my clothes and and my heart breaks for the day that those small, physical pieces of him will not be attached to me.
Every day I become more and more unsettled by the small amount of healing that I have done. I know it’s what he would have wanted. But I just want him.