Because I feel it every time he brings me a mug of tea on the porch or slips a thick pair of his socks over my cold feet. In every handwritten note and pot of coffee and touch against my bare skin in the stillness of night. In the drives we take along the dirt road that leads to the farm, all the windows down and my hair in the wind. In every familiar face we pass on the way into town, a call of my name and a happy wave, Beckett’s hand warm and comforting in mine. In the tiny tattoo of a lime on the inside of my forearm—the very same place he licked a line of salt from my skin the first night
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