When Clint was alive, we kissed each other" good morning," every day - even if we had to hold our breath. These days, I have one of my favorite photos of him as my computer wallpaper, and each day when I turn it on, I kiss my fingertip and hold it to his mouth in the picture. This morning, still crying from yesterday and the day before, I ran my fingers all over the screen, hoping to reach in and touch his sleeve, his face, take a sip from his glass of wine, make a physical connection. I still can't believe he's gone forever. I held his red sweater close like an insecure toddler holds his blanket. I held the sweater, rubbed it against my face and wept and begged him to come home until it hurt too much to keep it up. Every couple of days, I splash the sweater with some of his Old Spice, keeping it smelling almost like him. His smell, the real smell of him, is gone. I'll never smell it again, so I have to make the Old Spice do. I was sad all day, alleviating some of the pain by working around the house. Hell, I even vacuumed behind the sofas in the den. When five o'clock came, I took the dogs for a ride - up to Forsyth and across to Gray, then back down to Macon, cutting through Shirley Hills to look at our old house on Twin Pines. I don't know why I wanted to see it, but I don't understand a lot about my behavior these days. The dogs loved the ride and it got me out of the house without having to deal with any humans. We had thunderstorms earlier in the afternoon, so they were scared for a while. It was good to make them happy. I want to be happy one day, but not yet. I'm just not ready to let the pain go. I need it to feel alive. As indescribably miserable as I am, I haven't had enough.