The Weight of What Remains

The orange sat on the kitchen counter, already developing soft spots. Three days since you left, and still I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. It was the last thing we bought together.

Your dog, Baxter, has been sleeping at the foot of the bed every night, waiting for footsteps that won't come. The vet said separation anxiety, but I think he knows better than either of us. This morning he nosed my hand at six, exactly when you used to wake up.

I found the bear in the back of your closet. That ridiculous grizzly costume from the office Halloween party three years ago — the night you got drunk and told everyone you were secretly a "mama bear" about your team. You wore it to meetings for a week. The photo is still framed on your desk.

Today I went running for the first time since the funeral. Five miles along the river path we used to take together. My lungs burned in a way that felt almost like relief. I passed the spot where we stopped that morning in August, where you grabbed my hand and said you wanted to try again, wanted to be the person I deserved.

You weren't wrong about everything. Just about most things.

The oranges in the grocery store tonight made my chest ache. I bought three anyway. One for me, one for Baxter, one I'll leave on your grave tomorrow along with the bear costume. It's not closure. It's not peace. But it's something.

Baxter's whining at the door. He knows running won't fix this either. But we'll go anyway.