I can't wash my hands without hearing you chiding me, "Wash your hands thoroughly," without thinking of you demonstrating one day how to properly wash one's hands in the bathroom sink. I loved your cleanliness! I can't see a couple holding hands without thinking of us as we walked throughout Manhattan. I can't watch a woman haul her luggage up the subway station stairs without thinking of you lugging everything into our new apartment months before I joined you here in Manhattan. I can't turn on my phone without looking at the photo of you sitting on the sofa, resewing all the buttons on a blouse that you had just bought, because you didn't trust the factory-sewn buttons to stay on. We used to sit on that sofa and watch the Oscars. We gave the sofa, and lots of other things in our apartment, to a stranger. Now we're strangers.