It's a rainy, raw day. Someone I correspond with tells me he's prayed for us when he thought of us the last "couple of years." This is the second time in a month or so I've heard this phrase- it's appalling to me.
In the afternoon, after school and a playdate at a friend's, we look at another apartment for rent. On the way back inside, your daughter splashes in all of the puddles in her rain boots- like a photograph, or a movie. Inside, I put a video on for her, go to hang my coat up in the closet, and notice yours hanging there. I packed up all of your clothes- but not your coats. I take it out. I put it on. The black, wool Calvin Klein coat I picked out for you in 2008 because your old down one kept losing feathers. I tried it on myself like this in the store so that I could estimate your size and make sure it was a good fit. Your gloves, brown fleece ones, are in the pockets. I put those on too. I sit on the floor in front of outdated mirrored closet doors, wrap myself up in this coat and cry.
I miss you so very much.