Like grabbing at air

Bro,

I've been organizing all of your tools in my garage. The endless count of screwdrivers and hammers...what the hell did you do with all of those anyways?

As I clean, and put away each thing from the myriad buckets and bins, I'm trying hard to feel you, to be with you, to sense you. Each bucket of dirty and rusty shit might hold a key or map to get back to you. So far, just more tools and bolts and junk.

But, the gloves, those soft black ones, the ones you wore when we wired the house. I wear those all the time. I thank you each time I slip them on. I really like them. I think of you, of us while I work. I ask you for your advice on if I'm doing the task in the right way. I'll stop for a sec, and rub my gloved hands together slowly, as if summoning some part of you...as if I can call upon some small glimpse of you, made tangible by the soft material and my active thoughts.

So, almost through all the buckets and the bins. Looking good and organized. Plenty of shit to fix around the house. Maybe you'll be at the hot water heater, or the low branches, or the flaky lightswitch.

Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened.
--Dr. Seuss