Drifting.

I waited to change the sheets until I could no longer sense you in them. It took exactly 3 months, 2 weeks, 1 day and 3 hours from the morning you left for the scent of your shampoo to fade from the pillowcase you rested your head on. For days I could still feel your warmth on the sheets next to me, could still smell your lavender perfume on them when I woke up. When I changed them, I found the earring you lost last December and thought back to the frantic morning in which we spent hours searching for it.

I finally went into the second bedroom, the one you took over with your studies. Your textbook is still open to the same page you left it, and I can see the last sentence you highlighted before I carried you into the bedroom, already fast asleep in my arms. On the desk, your favorite vase still holds the dozen roses I surprised you with 3 days before you left, though they have withered in the months since. The picture frame in front of it shows a snapshot of the last time we went to the beach; you had your head on my shoulder and your hair was blowing across my face. I don’t think any photograph could have truly captured your spirit; the way your smile could light up the darkest room, the way your eyes shone like the rarest emeralds, the fire in your heart and the passion in your voice as you whispered, “I love you,” one last time as you left for work.

You woke up late that morning. I held you close to stave off the bitter sound of the alarm before you scrambled out of bed and slipped into clothes before rushing out to your car. From our bed I heard the screeching sound of someone slamming on their half-worn brakes, and for a moment I smiled in amusement, thinking you had narrowly avoided crashing into our mailbox again.

It was 9:13 a.m. My mind was still muddled with half-remembered dreams and my eyes still thick with sleep when I saw you lying there. Space and time seemed to slow as a woman raced to get out of her car and ran to you. Her car was halfway on the sidewalk and you were sprawled on your back 10 yards away. I ran to you only to find you sleeping peacefully in the flowered scrubs you had put on just moments ago.

I never said goodbye.

Your clothes still hang in our closet and still sit in our dresser drawers, waiting for the day you return home from work to tell me about your day, the day which will never come. After the funeral, your friends came by and I gave them what few mementos I could bear to part with: the red and green Santa bear Kristen gave you for Christmas 3 years ago, the scrapbook filled with a lifetime of photos of you and Jessica, and the baby blanket you were knitting for Michelle. Michelle gave birth several weeks ago and her daughter sleeps with the nearly-finished blanket every night.

I had dinner with your parents for your birthday last night. We went to your favorite restaurant and ordered your favorite dishes: Swiss cheese fondue, chicken with lime salsa, and cheesecake. We drank wine from your favorite vineyard and told stories of our favorite memories of you. Your mom regaled us with the tale of the night you ran around naked, refusing to put on any clothes until she and your dad allowed you to have a second cupcake (you were 3-years-old). Your dad smiled wistfully as he told us how proud he was to watch you graduate from high school and nursing school. I told them of the day we met, when you challenged me to a game of chess in the park. When you lost, you insisted upon rematch after rematch, even after it started pouring, until we were soaking wet and the pieces were slipping off of the board. You are still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes upon.

Two weeks ago, I had coffee with the woman who killed you. Her name is Marianne. She is 29-years-old, just two years older than you, and has two young children. That morning, she was rushing home from the hospital to break the news to her children: her husband, their father, had been struck and killed by a drunk driver in the pre-dawn hours. How ironic that as distress clouded her judgment and tears blurred her vision, she would cause the same chain of fate to unravel. I’m sure that if you were here today, curled up on the couch listening to the story, you would smile in appreciation of the tragic, poetic beauty of it all; a story made to fit between the pages of your favorite Greek dramas.

I took one last look around your study before turning off the light one more time. I haven’t had the heart to touch anything, to move your half-empty water glass or the jacket you threw haphazardly onto the floor near the desk. It has been nearly 4 months since I last heard your voice, but I still hear it resonate though the apartment. I make coffee for two every morning, and have not stopped buying your favorite foods when grocery shopping. However, the sheets have been changed, and with each change I can say goodbye a little better. I will love you forever, but I have begun to let you go.