James has been gone for two weeks, and today the weather is balmy. When I walked out this morning, neutral gusts of wind puffed my coat out and made me duck my head. It’s grey and warm, my favorite weather.
I miss him, I do. But already I feel that certain portioning that happens when someone you love is no longer accessible. It’s like running a long distance, accepting the slowed-down, difficult pace. You measure in months, not days or weeks. Vacations, not weekends. And the time in between gets filled somehow. Not by him or by anyone like him, but by yourself. Your brain fills up with different thoughts, essays and books you’re reading, snide comments people have said, the way your cat chirps hello when you come home. And home is still home, remarkably. The couch is the same couch, although it seems a little forlorn, waiting for your friend to come and admire it and its surroundings, to relax into it like he’s supposed to, like it’s meant for. The sconces you bought don’t seem as special without him there to obligingly flatter them, and the white wine you bought weeks ago, before he left, is still in the fridge. That’s the way you miss a friend, I think. By looking at the objects he used to look at and seeing a little less magic in them, without him.
