Here are some things that we did:

We made homemade Christmas presents together, with a different theme, every year.  I’ve lost the bright orange rice-sock we made to heat and put on the neck for relaxation.  Maybe she took it when she left?

We lit Hannuka candles every night of the holiday, I printed out the prayers for her to read in halting Heeblish.  She chose the color of the candles and I let my voice ring out to the blessing of light.

We sat on the couch and sang Joni Mitchell songs.  It was only once but I will always remember it.  

We had long talks about remembered kinds of candy and food and gum from our childhoods and then I went and bought a plethora of Hubba Bubba for us to share.

We went to Therapy. 

We cried.

We slept in the same bed many or most nights for about three years.  She ran hot (her friends called her oven-head) so I could just put one toe or finger on her and eventually I’d be warm all over.  I can’t bear to sleep in our bed now so I've made myself a nest outside.  When it rains I camp on the living room floor or go to the house of a friend.

We shared care of my beloved cat-son, from 5 years before until the day that he died.  We strategized how to get him to eat when he grew so, so thin, and she helped me dig the hole on the horrible horrible day of his burial.  

We fought about sex.  We had it, and did not.  We tried to find ways around the disparity in our desires.

We called each other Bun to such a level that it was locally famous.  Many of my friends also called her Bun.  An acquaintance once wrote on Facebook: “Your partner, I believe her name is Bun…”  Also many derivatives of Bun, you can only imagine.

She was sad.  She was so sad, so often.  I would come down the stairs to find her staring at her iPad, curled up on the couch in the middle of the day.  I tried to hold her, help her.  I guess I failed.  Maybe she just needed me to HEAR her.  I pushed her to get help.  I thought it helped.  

We joked about my remaining cat and enjoyed her as best we could.  She riffed on my names for said cat, cackling: “Choochi!  Choochi-mama!  Mama-lama-choochi paws!” 

We lived together.

She worked, hard, and adventured, harder.  I supported her every way I knew how. I trusted her - to be far away, around strange women, tracking down the gods of the wilderness.  I trusted her to be faithful to me.  She bought maps and special equipment, trained in the backyard and other places.  I did my best to clear out a swath in our world for her to pursue her dreams in.  I stood tall against anyone who might stand in her way, including myself.  Including her.

We visited my parents and her parents, her brother and my brother, my nieces and her nephews.  I called her father "Dad" and she called my grandmother "Abuela."  We told each other that we were each other's family.

We appreciated each other’s looks, with every variation of “you are cute”, “you are so cute”, “WHY ARE YOU SO CUTE OMG I CAN'T STAND IT”  And yet at the same time, and in some weird way, I wonder if either of us felt deeply seen on the physical level.  I remember her making muscles for me, saying: “How’s this?  Am I strong?”  and I wonder if I ever gave her what she needed.

I must have never given her what she needed because she is gone.  I’m alone in the house of Joni Mitchell and Hubba Bubba, of the one lonely leftover female cat, and the nest pitched outside, far away from the dangerously lonely, betrayed bed.  I am alone in the former House of Bun, trying to muster my own laughter, my own cute, my own warmth in the cold of the night.

I don’t know, I may never know, how it is that I incurred this loss.