The nights are the worst. They are a dark, lonely, abyss, with no way out, or so it seems, until I turn to Ashton's two little dogs at my feet. They follow me everywhere now, and won't let me out of their sight. My father said the day of the memorial the male walked in circles as if trapped. He howled that day as well.

And I... I feel like howling as well. Howl out the anguish. The pain.

But in my heart I know he's here. I can feel him, although not always. I can hear him speak to me when I least expect it. Standing at the stove, I heard him say, "Hi babe", just as he always did when he came home. But I didn't feel the kiss on the cheek.

Or the evening I was watching television. A tiny green frog hopped across the screen. Years ago Ashton gave me a small ceramic frog. Attached was a note: "I love you, I love you, said the little green frog."

Or splashing boiling water on my hand. His voice crystal clear with concern, "Oh, baby..."

Or his photo on the wall by my computer. It was crooked. Later that day I realized it had been straightened. I was the only one in the house.

Whether it is truly Ashton speaking to me, or my imagination, it doesn't matter. What matters is that his voice soothes me.

We rarely argued, and when we did it lasted five minutes. We always made up with a kiss. Sometimes I want to remember those arguments so that I don't hurt as much. Remembering the joyful times is too painful right now; I miss them desperately.

What I miss most? Saying goodnight. He always went to bed early. He'd come into the office and say, "'Night babe. I love you." And I would say, "Love you", and give him a kiss. Then we'd banter back and forth. I love you more. No, I love you more. I love you infinity. I love you infinity plus. And so it went, until we ran out of infinities. Then he would climb into bed and I would go in and stroke his head and rub his back. Then, in the morning, I would awaken with Ashton stroking my head. I miss the stroking on both sides.

I gave one of his pillows to his two little dogs. I didn't change the pillow case. They sleep with their noses buried deep in the pillow. I kept a pillow for myself, and hug it at night. The bed is so big. So empty. A water bed, whenever Ashton climbed in my side would be forced up like a balloon. For some reason I loved that. And I always asked him to make "waves"-- and he would. The rocking was soothing.

Now there are no waves. No balloons. Just emptiness.

But each day he gives me a fast kick in the rear. I try, I really do, to go forward as he would want. But it's the nights....