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I miss you when it's cold out. I remember how you loved the snow. When it melted you would go outside and tend to the flowers. You'd cover them when frost threatened to bite. You’d tuck them in.1

In the morning, you’d go outside, and I’d have to chase after you with your boots, because you’d have forgotten them by the door. You’d turn around with those rosy cheeks, just like your dad’s, and you’d say, “Mommy, be quiet, they’re still sleeping,” after you peeked under the tarp. We’d tiptoe back inside together, the sun would slant through the windows, and we were happy in our home.2

I suppose I miss you all the time. I miss your little green eyes, just like mine. Your laughter still echoes in the hollow spots of the house, it seems unmarred by your absence. Its only purpose, it seems, is to drive me to madness. I once believed that mourning should, in time, progress to acceptance. Yet I still expect to hear your clumsy progress down the stairs each morning, and your wailing for a story at night. 3

I wish the house wasn’t so cold all of the time. Maybe the thermostat is broken. You thought it was a toy, after all. I’d have someone out to fix it, but I’m afraid they’ll disturb the house. Those repairmen always seem to muddy the floors.4

I’ve been keeping at the rosebushes, but you must have gotten the touch from your father. There’re only a few things left now. I try to take care of them, but I fear that soon there’ll be nothing. I guess I’ll have to cut the flowers soon. It’d be unfair if I didn’t. You can take care of them much better than I. It hasn’t snowed, but the winter’s been very cold.5

I feed the goldfish you left behind. He’s still on his shelf, up and away from the cat. He’s doing better than the flowers. I thought about picking up some more, to keep the poor guy company, but I think I like him just fine. 6

It’s almost like everything is just waiting for you to come back. Your boots aren’t in their place anymore, but they’re just inside the closet, ready for you when you need them. Your room is just the same. My girlfriends all said I should turn it into a studio, but there’s something nice about the way it looks. 7

I’m sure fate favors nobody, but I wish it had been me instead. My room is bare, now. I’ve taken to sleeping on the floor. I’ve found that I can get used to anything. People say I should sell the house. It is too big for the likes of only me. I suppose they do not know how it feels to be trapped in the walls of one’s own house. They do not know what it’s like to see one’s own heart projected on every surface, each frame yellowed with ages that have not passed. They know no emptiness. 8

The medicine cabinet is still full, I get headaches an awful lot these days. They say I should clean it out, for some things have expired, but I feel secure in the knowledge of its fullness.9

Sometimes I see your footprints in the snow on the front porch. I’ve kept your breakfast cereals handy in the pantry, and your little children’s scented shampoo on the hanging shelf in the shower. Your toys are stacked neatly in their boxes, I’ve been meaning to send them off to Good Will or Salvation Army, but I just don’t have the heart. 10

I think about staying with somebody I know for a few nights, just to get out. They say I’m too thin, and that my hair is too white for someone so young. Call me crazy, but if I should leave I know that you’d come back. How could I ask you to forgive my missing you?11

For now I’ll just watch the pictures on the walls. Perhaps when the roses finally succumb to the frost I can go stay with your Aunt Susan. I can ship off those boxes and give your boots to a little girl who likes the snow. I can watch the sun slant through the windows once more, and perhaps the light won’t be so bright as to give me a headache.12