I am beginning to listen to music you never heard. Your mother and I talk about where we think you are now, whether we will ever see you again. My father hangs his head every time I talk about missing you. Who else is thinking about you at this exact moment? Today is gray and damp; the hunters are in the woods, deer dart across the road when I drive at night. Your hand was blue and cold in mine as you died. Nothing has changed. Every day is every day.