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  I sit on the floor in front of outdated mirrored closet doors, wrap myself up in this coat and cry.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.

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