Every now and then I submit to a literary publication just to see what happens. And I almost always I get a rejection letter sometime in the next two weeks or ten months. After receiving this week’s rejection, I thought, Hey, I kinda liked that piece.

So their loss is … my blog’s gain?

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I present to you (*hesitant drumroll*)

This mourning

This morning, I got out of bed, preparing to face the day.

More specifically, this morning, I got out of the bed we bought together when we purchased our first home in 2016. The bed with the mattress we ordered and had delivered to the house prior to moving in. The mattress the previous homeowners were gracious enough to sign for on our behalf so we could sleep there the first night we owned the house. That’s the bed I got out of today—a bed he hasn’t slept in since his death four years ago.

And on that bed are the light gray sheets that he never got to experience. The sheets that arrived the day before we checked into the hospital for his bone marrow transplant. The sheets that I splurged on so our friend/house sitter/dog sitter could sleep in luxury while we spent a month in the hospital. The sheets that drudge up whispers of guilt because I would have purchased the softest, most expensive bedding if I’d known we didn’t have many nights left together. Instead, he spent his last months on starchy, paper-like sheets in a hospital bed.

But I got out of what was once our bed today.

I headed to my closet, and, like most mornings, I browsed my assortment of sweatpants. I realized he wouldn’t recognize any of these sweatpants. But, after brief consideration, I selected teal as my color choice for the day. I received my first pair of these outrageously soft pants as a birthday gift when he was technically alive but in a coma-like state. Actually, I wore this exact pair of teal pants around him several times per week during those final months in the hospital. But I don’t think he could interpret his surroundings. So, no, I suppose he wouldn’t know these pants despite having been in their proximity many times.

To go with those pants, I chose a light blue T-shirt bearing the name Saugatuck, a city on the left-hand side of the Michigan mitten. The town my parents and I stayed near when we traveled from Atlanta to his home state to spread his ashes. The T-shirt I got as my mom and I browsed shops the day before we took a boat out onto Lake Michigan to release him into the expansive blue water. To free him at 42˚39’47”N, 86˚16’28”W—the coordinates that were carved into a paddle that was gifted to me.

The paddle sits on a shelf between his wooden gavel and the marble name plate that used to rest atop his judicial bench after he became Gwinnett County, Georgia’s first Hispanic judge at 39 years old. The position that made him eligible for the premium health insurance that prompted the check-up that led to the surprise leukemia diagnosis. I got this Saugatuck shirt as a souvenir on a trip I only took because he died. I love and hate that shirt. What will I do with it when it becomes too worn to wear?

Once dressed, I took hold of my engagement and wedding rings and slid them onto my right hand. The rings that led to too many awkward conversations when still worn on my left hand. The rings I had resized to fit my right hand so I could carry him with me without having to explain. The rings that I’d worn for the duration of our marriage, which lasted four years and seven months to the day. The date we’d chosen because it marked four years since our first date, meaning we spent exactly eight years and seven months together. He spent the rest of his life with me, yet my life continues.

This morning, I drank my tea from a mug he’s never touched.