Sunny weather helps.
There are stories out there where amputees still feel and believe that they have their limbs - the sensation is still there.
Then there are those stories I heard when I was a kid, about supernatural meetings with angels and how those events stay with you forever. I saw heaven when I was four. The ground was damp after the rain, and I was walking on a dirt road, through tall grass on the road home. The colors of Vietnam, greens, blues and rust browns were rich and saturated. The sky literally opened up and a prism sliced through the billowy monsoon clouds. And I saw a city of gold, with minarets and homes and slender archways. Purples and shades of russet and pinks all swirled together. I couldn't have imagined it at that age -- what did I know about architecture beyond the curved tiled roofs of the local temples? Even now, that image seems like a dream, a mirage, but I knew what I saw. It was beatific.
Today I went to Chinatown to pick up some supplies for the week. Since Candice left, I have to add more to the week's plan. Laundry, groceries and dusting all have to be part of the schedule now. Bike rides will squeeze between prepping lunches and loading the dishes. Writing will go before runs to the supply store and cleaning the counters. I find myself thinking about what she would do. Would she go to the big market for the bones for the stock, or would she choose the smaller butcher shop? Would she like the new bike helmet I bought, or does she prefer the one that's not so orange?
There's a sense of freedom, too. I had to drive defensively before. Now I accelerate up hills, turn corners sharply and brake hard. I add as much salt as I want when I cook, turn the music up loud and throw my hoodies everywhere. I watched an Adam Sandler movie last night. She would never go for that.
Missing her is too simple of an emotion.