Willow, I dreamt of you last night. For the first time in weeks. I see you in the reflection of the falling moon on the window while I lay in bed. In the jar of honey I put on my toast in the morning. I feel you in the pit of nostalgia that sits in my stomach, as I walk by the quiet houses in the neighborhood. A reminder of what we could have had. I hear your voice talking to me, telling me that I’m doing okay. Although it’s tough to believe you sometimes. 

I’ve started drinking coffee again. I get up really early, like my mom used to. I’m up before the sun, before the birds. If I lived on a farm, I’d be up before the rooster too. The city is quiet then, and dark. Or at least what I can see of it. Everything’s flipped for me. I used to be up too late each night, but now I’m up too early. It’s two sides of the same coin, although I’ve never liked that analogy. Because the late nights and the early mornings touch, almost romantically. There’s nothing in between them, not like the wall of metal between the designs on the heads and tails of a coin. You can only ever really see one side at a time. But that's not the case with the quiet company of the moon. To get from deep night to early morning, it's closer to a dance, or maybe a walk on a thin tightrope over a steady river. 

Usually I sit on the edge of the counter and make my coffee, listening to the machine buzz and whirr. The hardwood floor is too cold for my feet so early in the morning. I make two cups, always. One for you. I leave it on the kitchen table. And when I get home at the end of each day, I pour it into the sink. It's hard to share something with nobody to share it with. 

My mom has started to come over more often, not just for the holidays anymore. We don’t do anything special, usually we just cook or bake, maybe watch a show or two. But it's nice, having some company around, that is. Fills up the space a bit. Gives it a bit of life. On Saturday she asked me if I had been enjoying the time away from work, I told her no, obviously not. This isn’t a vacation. I knew she meant well. 

I figure I should move, but I haven’t yet finished unpacking our boxes here. I'm not entirely sure where I would go. I pulled out your work uniform today. It still had your nametag clipped to the front. Big lettering, colored with different markers that you seemed to have picked out. I unclipped it and laid it on the counter. I’m not sure I could pack all of our things again. Or try to leave them somewhere. To leave all of that would almost be leaving you. And it seems that’s already happened.

I saw your brother at Thanksgiving. They made the casserole you like, well– we all cooked it together in the kitchen. Well–  I didn’t exactly cook it, more so I just sat at the table while your grandma did, and your brother helped her. I wasn’t really even there. My body was, but I was just far away, I guess. Did you know she puts cinnamon in it? I did catch that. I figured you would have liked to know, given all those times you tried to replicate the recipe. I don’t cook much on my own anymore, every time I try it gets to be too much. 

Eventually we stopped helping your grandma, and your brother invited me to sit outside. We watched the leaves blow in the wind. 

“How are you holding up? Y’know, coming here, to something like this? Without– her?” he asked me, after a pause had found the conversation. I didn’t know how to respond.

“I haven’t slept much in weeks. When I do, I dream of Willow. I see her so vividly. It’s like she’s right there. It’s like she never left. Part of me wants to sleep the days away, to see her as much as I can. Part of me is afraid to even go to bed, knowing I’ll have to wake up.” I replied. He nodded.

I found out pretty quickly that there’s not a lot that anyone can say that actually makes a difference. They all try to console you pretty fast, but consolation doesn’t put back what was lost. Words become only just that: words. They lose a lot of their meaning. An I’m sorry or an I’m here if you need me, is nice to hear, but so was your tender voice. So was the way you crept about the apartment when the lights were low and the moon was high, worried about waking me. So was the way you’d say my name when you had a question that you knew I’d know the answer to. Those things didn’t get old fast. Those words became a lot more than what they were: not just words. 

It’s different with your family, of course. They know a much worse pain than I ever will. At times I lie awake on our couch, with the window open for some noise, and I feel selfish. I feel selfish for claiming the pain. For pouring my own glass far too high, and leaving others thirsty. As though I’m entitled to be the one that hurts the most, and they aren’t. Because I knew you like others didn’t? So did they. So many people knew you in a way I will never. Even just the worker behind the counter at the cafe, who remembered your order. There was never a shortage of you to go around. 

My dad came around too. Even though I hadn’t talked to him in a while. He must have heard the news from my mom. He wanted to take me shopping, so that we could get out of the apartment. We ended up just walking up and down the aisles at the grocery store. 

“We love you, Alex,” is how he started. I just nodded, passing a can of soup back and forth between my hands. 

“I was fourteen when I lost my father,” is how he continued. “I felt like I barely knew him. I guess that’s far from the truth for you, but that's something to be grateful for. Scars fade, people don’t.” 

I hugged him in the middle of the aisle. It had been a while since I had hugged anyone really, at that point. He helped me sort through some of your old sweaters, and we hung them up in the closet. I played some of the music you used to like in the background, though I didn’t tell him that. But he seemed to like it too.

When it got late we sat together on the balcony and talked for a while.

“ How long has it been, today?” he asked. He leaned forward in the chair, with his elbows resting on his thighs, and he looked out over the quiet corner of the neighborhood. The street lamp illuminated a few cars parked beneath it. The wind was light, but noticeable. I could hear the resonating noises of the nearby birds, and the quiet, regular shuffles of the night.

“Seven weeks, three days.” I replied. He shifted in his seat again. 

“Tell me something, Alex,” he said.

“Tell you what?” I replied, looking towards him.

“I’ve always thought that sharing something you remember about a person is a way of letting another person live through your eyes. Tell me something about her. Something I wouldn’t have known.” This time he looked towards me. We met eyes.

“Willow never wanted anyone to hear her laugh,” I started. “Which I never could quite understand. She’d always bring her hand up to block her mouth when she found things funny, as if she was trying to muffle the sound or something. But with me– with me it was different. She was lighter, less worried about what others thought.” 

There were too many things that came to mind when my dad asked. How am I supposed to reduce a person down to one instance? How could I tell a memory that captured the range of you? So I kept telling him different stories. The time we went to the aquarium together, and you stopped to take a picture of every fish in one of the tanks, because you found them so endearing. I told him about the last time we went out to dinner, the Italian place you loved on the corner. About how you could eat those same dishes for every meal. About the way you looked at me. The way you held my hand under the table. The way it fit gently into mine. The way you couldn’t stop laughing. The way you didn’t hide it. 

It's been a year. I’ve been starting to cook that casserole, and adding extra cinnamon since I learned that it was the missing ingredient. Your brother came by for dinner with my mom, and I made it for the both of them. It got rave reviews. I’ve found a lot of comfort in some of the things I can’t control. Things like the wind, or my dreams, or the passing of time. I’ve hung up photos of us around the apartment. I still dream of you. I still think about how you’d hold my hand. How you wouldn’t let it go. Neither will I.