I knew I was supposed to miss you, of course. And I felt, and still feel, your absence in a way that I can't escape. Empty time where there shouldn't be. And things I would say to you if you were here. And just knowing that even in times when I wouldn't see or speak to you, you are far away now. Things I anticipated. But not until I went to the laundromat did I actually feel the feeling of missing you.
Someone there reminded me of you. He didn't look a thing like you. And he was much older. Decades older. But something in his mannerisms, the way he spoke, the mischief in his eyes, the way he treated me felt just like you. And I didn't even notice at first, being oblivious as I am. He spoke to me a couple times as I went about my business loading the washer and again when it was time to move the clothes to the dryer.
I was reading my book, not even thinking of the interaction when it hit me. Somewhere between paragraphs I realized that he talked to me just the way you would. And I miss you.
Well, I hope you miss me too. Because I'm mean that way.