Things that remind me of him:
Target.
Stepping into Ikea and smelling the cafeteria food.
Long drives with the radio playing softly.
The rain, pooling up in my boots, the smell it leaves on my jacket, the way it tastes on my lips.
The north side of the mountain, the one that is perpetually foggy and jagged.
Throw pillows, tucked between my knees and alongside my back, emulating all the nights I used them to pretend he was there, holding me.
Tea kettles, their incessant knack for screaming at the worst times, when I finally sit back down and get comfortable.
Empty hospital rooms, sterile cleaning supplies and the times I would refresh my phone hoping he'd at least called.
The floor, specifically the grey and white carpet on the hardwood floor, how towards the end I just left the glass shards in it because I wanted to feel a sting.
The desert and the red dirt, how it ground between my toes when I finally figured it out.
Darting eyes and their need to validate inexcusable actions with the justification that it would all calm down eventually.
And finally, elevators, how my worst fear only seemed to be exacerbated with him by my side, trying to hold back laughter as he let go of my hand.