Early morning. It's still dark outside, and raining. Sometimes, it sneaks up on me. I get up to go to the bathroom and it is not him snoring softly in the darkened living room. I still expect to see him. Cutting his hair in the bathroom, brushing his teeth with his noisy, battery-powered toothbrush (still in the medicine cabinet because I can't bear to throw it away.) Still hear him puttering around in our tiny kitchen, fixing breakfast, grilling cheese sandwiches, cooking those smelly crabs. See him, reading the newspaper, glasses sliding half down his nose. Still hear him cussing the Redskins on t.V., arguing with his younger brothers on the phone - then laughing about it. Ironing his clothes in the precise, post-military, fashion. Singing along with music videos in his off-key way. Cackling at cartoons in the middle of the night. Admonishing me to "Fix your collar." Going downstairs to check for the mail. Happy because he found a cigarette he'd forgotten he had. Fussing about too many commercials. Mixing his orange juice and vodka with that casual satisfaction. Calling me, interrupting rehearsals, to see what time I'd be home. Stopping to talk to every dog we encountered and every baby rolling by in a stroller, as he walked me to work. Or sitting outside my job on the wall grinning, waiting for me when I finally got off. Cramming all his clothes in one washer and dryer to save the extra change for a beer. I forget. Then, I remember. I forget. Then... I remember.