2 months

Today, it was two months. I find myself still waiting for it to be real, despite making milestones out of passing time, it's still surreal, and it still feels like anything but what it is. She's not really gone. Just away, somewhere. Not even coming back, per se. Just not gone. Gone absolutely. In an impossibly irretrievable way. Infinitely, explicably gone.
Today has come and nearly gone.
Alistair has been sick, thus home, and sullen all day, making me feel like shit. I was kinda hoping for a chance to talk to the urn, as he suggested, but I know I'm not ready for it yet if I find the thought of talking to what's left of her around someone else embarrassing.
It took me so long to find the words for her corpse, minutes that felt like days as I sat in that chair in the superficially cold room, staring at her dead sleep, trying to touch her arm, and discovering what exactly dead flesh and rigor mortis feels like to the observer.

Cold, stiff, by the way.