I wear your T-shirts and soccer jerseys.
I sing the songs you used to sing to Audrey now.
I call her "beptz," the name that you had for her since before she was born.
I dance the way you danced- and make your facial expressions when I think of them.
When I hear the bus brake outside of our bedroom window, I still get excited inside the way I used to- imagining you were home. The bus stops here during rush hour every 5 minutes or so, and I never knew exactly when you'd be home because it was different every night. So I'd be waiting while doing some freelance writing in bed. Hearing those bus brakes again and again. Then only once- I would hear those brakes and know you were there. I would hurry to the window, peak through the curtain, and there you would be...your silhouette in the evening light coming off that bus- headphones on usually- backpack behind you- sometimes that cello strung over one shoulder and behind you.
I picture you looking up at our window and waving that large, wave with one hand slowly- like people at concerts do during those power ballads or anthems. And I find myself imitating that too- while sitting in bed thinking of all this.