I feel like I’m existing in some sort of alternate reality. An in-between. A medium place.

Most of the time, things are fine. I can laugh. I can tell stories. I can make jokes. I can eat.

But then there are other times when I’m alone and desperate. I can’t catch my breath. I can’t form a rational thought.

I dig through his drawers, his bags, his closet for new things. A new understanding or moment with him. Or perhaps a memory we hadn’t shared in some time. A new scrap of handwriting. A hidden memento.

I watch videos and scroll through photos, but never all of them. Never too many. I must leave some to be discovered later. When I need to hear a new version of his voice or remember the crinkle in his eyes that only came out when he was really, truly laughing.

I wish that we hadn’t done so much laundry and that his smell lingered. I wear his deodorant, his tshirts, his hoodies.

I stare into his photo that is the lock screen of my phone and whisper, “I just can’t believe you’re not here,” because I can’t but he isn’t.

But most of the time, I’m OK. I cooked dinner. Took a shower. Cleaned up a bit. Most of the time, it’s fine. My best friend came from New York just to be present. My family abandoned plans and assembled at the River. Brendan and Lauren, jetlagged, made it up 17 in time to join us for brunch. It was just right. We are so loved.

Conor is also fine, but I worry that he is also feeling the liminal space as we find our footing together. I don’t want him to have to sit with it as I have chosen to, so he plays fortnite and spends the nights with cousins and that feels right and so we keep going.

I am glad we went to the River. When Conor and I went a few weeks ago – when Preston first entered hospice – when we pulled every string we could to possibly get him there one last time – I couldn’t function. Especially once I knew he couldn’t get there after all. I couldn’t leave fast enough. Everything in the house reminded me that the space that he occupied as his most authentic self would only ever contain his things and never again his sparkle.

I texted him in my panic that I didn’t think I could go back there, and he responded, “It is our unifying place. We will always all be there together.”

I hope that is true. That as these days and weeks pass – when I’ve finally touched every possession and listened to every record and seen every picture – that I’ll still find him new in the world.

Because it’s just still so hard to believe he isn’t coming back.