I recall keeping things, very small things, to tell you each night or weekend from my day or week back when you were...alive. Even before Audrey was born and they were things she had done, I had small details of my day that seemed important. Like running into an old friend of ours in the subway, a new melody I'd come up with I wanted you to hear, or something irritating a co-worker did. That whole range of the mundane details of our lives. And later, if I forgot what it was I wanted to tell you- I was momentarily distraught- "Oh, there was something else I wanted to tell you!"
This not getting to tell you that you died over a year ago and Audrey is almost three now- that I had to see your body and plan your funeral and I talk to your parents every weekend, that I'm not sure where we're going to live, but Audrey's signed up for preschool and I am fighting not to lose my faith, that your glasses are on top of your computer speaker along with your wallet and baseball cap. That I lent out your cello to Julliard and I'm sorry, that Audrey has two imaginary friends now named Sarah and Ooks Ocks, that I recently took her to Maine to visit Abbie and Brian and she and Oliver had so much fun together, that your brother's getting married and I bought a new white quilt for the summer and a french antique armoire to house all of Audrey's art supplies, that I went grocery shopping today and got caught in the rain and that Audrey didn't care for the couscous and mini burgers I made with chopped cucumbers and tomatoes and hummus, but she did like the little yellow grape tomatoes. That you never, ever came home Dan. You never did. That I'm terrified of forgetting you or the feel of the passionate companionship we had. This whole thing of not getting to tell you all of these...is just quiet torture.
I know that if you're at all aware anywhere, you have much more exciting things to share than these. Until then...I'll keep collecting these things to tell you. I miss you very, very much.