He’s been gone eleven months and I still buy the bigger yogurt. Still reach for two mugs when I make coffee, every single morning, and only notice halfway through pouring that one of them is going to sit there untouched until I wash it out of guilt around dinnertime. I know exactly what I’m doing when I do it. That’s the part I can’t explain to anyone. It’s not forgetting — forgetting would almost be a relief. It’s that for…