I dreamed about P again last night. I saw him at G's school, and we walked out to where his car was parked -- not the last car he owned, the one I have now, but the black Accord he had when I first met him. He asked me, "How am I going to die?" and I told him some sort of story that wasn't the truth. Then I said "No, that's not right. You're going to die at home. I'm going to find you."
It occurred to me a while ago that right after he died, I couldn't even stand to look at our bed, but now I sleep in it every night, more or less on the exact spot where he took his last breath. Somewhere along the line it just stopped bothering me. I still sleep on my own side of the bed, though, not his. It's hard to break the habit of more than a decade.