I was in my closet hanging up my clothes for the day. Straightening. I wondered what I’d do with your clothes if you died. That big closet next to mine filled of your crumpled days and ironed events. Which ones would I keep just for myself, which would I save for Lucas? Last night you went to pick up dinner, and I cautioned you to drive safely, at least three times. I was on my knees when I heard you walk in from the garage, back safe. I was picking peas off the floor just under Lucas’s highchair. "Poppa’s home," I sang. But all that time you were gone, I imagined the police ringing the bell, the officer with his hat in his hand, as if I were your mother and you were away at war. They were delivering the news, I imagined. I’d be in shock. I wouldn’t know what to do. I don’t know your passwords. I’d need to get something off your computer and I wouldn’t be able to. I imagine all these small details, the way I’d probably start cleaning. I wouldn’t know what to do. I don’t know how people move on after such news. Someone goes in for liposuction, or some other elective surgery, and they don’t come out. I think of things. Not all the time, and when I do, I find I hold onto you longer and am more clingy. Last night I sat on your lap. I’d been thinking death thoughts, which always seem to bring me closer to you.