When it's quiet in the night

The best time to be in his garage is in the night time. When it's dark outside. There are no noises. Just quiet & stillness. I walk around. Looking at the things he collected. Pulling out the drawers of his tool boxes. Touching the tools he once touched and used. I cry of course. But I feel so close to him. I breathe deeply of the scent of him. A scent that always had a trace of oil or gas. I miss him. I pulled out the stupid funeral home bag for something tonight and started looking at the pictures of the flowers people sent. I began to cry. I remember people pushing me to take the flowers home. I wanted nothing to do with them. None of them. Although they were beautiful arrangements. They were like poison to me. Like some kind of leprosy. I still can't grasp sometimes that he is gone. I smell his jacket hanging by the back door. Almost one year later, everything remains the same. Not much has been moved. I feel like he still lives here. And I like that. I miss him. I miss him. I miss him. But I know I will see him again.