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11:06 a.m.

It's been nearly a month, and nothing is the same.

The plants aren't where the plants go. The birds aren't where the birds go.
And there aren't nearly enough shelves or closets.

I'd swear to my story I'd poked my head in every box and bag in this place, but important things are still missing.

Toothbrush charger, for instance. My great-grandma's table cloth... laundry baskets and dvds and drink pitchers.

And you. You weren't in any of the boxes or bags, and I'm beside myself.

Did you stay at the old house to guard the things we left? That's what I hope, because it's the least worrisome. If you were here you'd know I quit the meds. Maybe it was a stupid thing to do... so far so good, I say. Yeah, I blow up and sometimes I cry. But as long as I don't crawl into bed, we're doing alright.

Right?