It has been 64 days since I last saw him. Touched him. Felt his kiss.
63 days since I heard his voice.
62 days since his last text to my phone, telling me he would call as soon as he was settled in with his new caregiver.
And 60 days since I got the other phone call instead.
The bottle is small. A travel size that would not be confiscated from his carry-on. Today I take it off my dresser, and empty the bathroom shelf of the “man stuff” I keep on hand for him. The razors and shave cream. The shower gel and sport sunscreen. His brush. I cannot bring myself to throw it all away yet, so it is relocated to a basket, which I tuck away in the depths of the linen closet, where I will forget about it for awhile.