Pajamas, I have decided, feel better straight out of the dryer. You always said you hated doing the wash, the washer would occasionally bleach one of our favorite shirts sleeves, and we’d still wear it, with an over shirt.

Toothpaste, I’ve discovered, lasts much longer if you squeeze at the bottom of the tube. You always squeezed the middle, and threw it out with half a tube left, and it settled in around the clotted tissues.

Blankets, I have decided, are much cozier when shared. Though the empty side of your bed is cold, I see the warmth radiating from the picture of the nightstand, a picture of our anniversary twenty years ago. You looked just as beautiful the day you died.
I flip over from my side of the bed, and grab the picture frame, hugging it tightly to my chest. It is only a picture, I needn’t remind myself.
Anything is better than nothing.