It is August 11, 2010. When this started, I noted the 11th of every month as a sort of anniversary. I guess it's a measure of how far we've come that I no longer do that, at least not compulsively. But this day is 3 months short of the 6th anniversary of Thomas's death. I miss him. I miss the balance he gave to our family--the commonsense of a guy who did not like pretentious books, who minded his own business and asked us to do the same, who showed up for dinner and never made his bed when he was home. The loyal friend. But this is where we are: we have our memories and our pictures, and the little bit of writing that he left us. We have two videotapes (got to have those moved to digital media soon) of talks he gave in high school as part of his International Baccalaureate program. In our living room we have a cabinet that contains the papers relating to his death, the cards and letters from friends and relatives and strangers, pictures, and a triangular case holding the flag that draped his casket. I'd so much rather have the warmth of his presence.