I looked for you at the grocery store – in the soup aisle, in the bread area of the bakery, by the colorful and confusing boxes of pop, but I didn’t see you anywhere. I noticed there were no small containers of Turner’s whole milk and I knew you’d be disappointed. I remembered, as I passed the frigid butter boxes, that you had about 5 expired boxes of Land ’O Lakes butter in your refrigerator when I cleaned it out two months ago. It was the salted butter, that’s the one we like best. 

I always park close to the store, so the walk is easier for us. I’ve been to the store three times since you died and the first two times I parked in the same place where we always park. Today, I parked in a different spot, across the street and on a different side of the store. I wish I could say that I laughed at myself when I couldn’t find my car after shopping. My ironic confusion only made me feel more exhausted. 

On New Year’s Eve, I listened to some of your messages on my phone. On one day in July, there were 11 messages from you which range from sweet to cruelly delusional. Contrary to the expected reaction, I sit completely dry-eyed and listen to your voice – even the angry messages bring me a familiar sort of peace.  

I look for you at your house, expecting to see you in the kitchen, in the hallway, in the sun room. I sit quietly on the couch and fix the blanket and the pillows when I leave, because I know how you like them to be neat and straight. 

The world continues on its path forward. People are out shoveling snow and I see a dog playing with young kids like something out of a Hallmark movie or an insurance commercial. My life is forever altered marking a “before” and an “after”, but life in general continues without missing a single beat. This is simultaneously devastating and comforting. 

At my house, I hear your voice kindly commenting on the little kitchen shelf and the new creamer I bought last week. I look for you around the corner and expect the dog to be barking at your awkward movements as you try to find a place for your coat and your purse. But the dog isn’t barking, your coat isn’t here. 

You, are not here. 

Where are you?