They tell me the shock wears off first. I don't know who "they" are, or how they'd know, but I keep waiting for it anyway and it hasn't gone yet.

This morning I got two mugs down from the cupboard before I remembered. Yours is the blue one with the chip near the handle, the one you always said you'd throw out and never did. I stood there holding it for longer than a mug deserves, then put it back. I don't think I'll be able to use it for a while, and I don't think I'll be able to throw it away either.

Your coat is still on the hook by the door. I've walked past it four times today and every time some small stupid part of me expects you to come and take it down, complaining about the cold the way you always did, as though the weather owed you an apology.

The house is very loud in its quiet, if that makes any sense. I keep starting sentences to you the way I always did, and it's only when I get to the end of them that I remember there's no one there to finish them with. I said "you'll never guess" out loud yesterday, to an empty kitchen, before I caught myself.

I don't have anything wise to say. I thought I might, by now. I don't.

I'm not ready to write more than this. But I wanted to start.