About the window and the worst night and him still being there in the morning and what that meant.
She knew about him — she always knew about him — but I tell her anyway.
I tell her I’m in love.
I tell her I’m happy in a way I didn’t know I was allowed to be.
I tell her my dad tends her garden every morning.
That the daisies are still going.
That he talks to her sometimes when he thinks no one can hear.
That he’s still the same man she married even without her there to remind him.
I tell her she should really use whatever ghost powers she has to teach him to cook.
Because it’s getting dire.
She would’ve laughed at that.
But I’m so serious.
• • •
I tell her I’m sorry for not being present enough when she was here.
For all the mornings I was somewhere in my own head instead of in the kitchen with her.
For the granola bar and the good and walking out the door.
I tell her I see her everywhere.
In the garden.
In every corner of the house.
In the way my dad smiles when something catches him off guard.
In the way Cassian is gentle with me.
The same specific gentleness she taught him.
The way he shows up when things are bad and doesn’t say anything and just stays.
He learned that here.
From her.
From all of us.
• • •
She’s still here.
In everything she left behind.
I tell her I love her.
