Every morning on the drive to the hardware store, I skip the same song. It was her favorite, back when she lived with us for eight months.
She found that lamp at a garage sale for two dollars. Pink sticker still on the base. She said it matched the sunset over the vineyards.
The league commissioner for my beer league—Mike, from aisle four—asked why I never let it play. I said I just wasn't in the mood.
Truth is, I don't want to hear the song without her. It would feel wrong, like laughing at her joke when she's not in the room.
I still make the bed she slept in, even though no one's been in that room for fourteen months. The social worker says it's okay to let go.
Maybe tomorrow I'll let the song play. But not today. Today I'm not ready to find out who I am when no one's listening to that melody but me.