I wear his t-shirts to bed every night.  I wear his socks, which come all the way up to my knees.  I wear his chaps when I ride horses – again, way too long for me.  I use his coffee mug, sit in his chair.  I started doing all of that to be close to him.  Not that it works, but at least it is something.  I can still picture how he would open the front door, poke his head in, and say “Hey, Babe.” I can still hear his voice.  I have several old voicemails from him on my phone.  Strangely, I don’t listen to them.  I can’t.  It is too hard.  I know in my head and in my heart that he is gone, but somehow I also don’t believe it.  And to hear his voice would make it too real, would bring back those chest-heaving sobs, that raw pain, that unbearable tearing apart of my heart and my life.  So, I keep some things tucked away as a protective measure.  It might be avoidance, it might be denial, it might simply be self-preservation.  I am living the reality of my loss, and yet, I also cannot face it.