I miss you. I miss you every day. My home. My love. My love home. My maman. I try to fill your gap with another, with moving from continent to continent, from city to city, with friends, with art, with autumn in the mountains, with smoke, with walks by the sea. But traveling in a circle, I always arrive at the agony of your absence.
In the kitchen this morning, I turn my head and find you there. You are standing in profile in line at the chemo clinic, waiting to get your wristband from the receptionist. Each time the same question: What is your date of birth? And each time, your answer the same: March 3rd, 1944.
In five days, I will mark another birthday. My first without you. From now on, without you.