His clothes are waiting.
There’s a pile on the floor,
tucked into the corner
and ready to be washed;
another on his chair,
haphazard but clean.
A few others sit in a basket,
neatly folded.
He would have picked through them
the next morning,
getting ready for the day.
I pull out a pair of black pants from the dirty pile,
notice a bungee cord strung through
as a makeshift belt.
I fold them slowly,
tuck them under my arm,
and, for now, leave everything else behind.
bussokuseki 
Your words invite a reader, a silent witness, to walk beside you in remembrance of her own …
I am so sorry for your loss. Your words are so beautiful, but it is the spaces in between that get caught in my throat.
Thank you, Emily.