I picked up Jedi's ashes from the UPS center in Cerritos on December 4. I opened the package at Leigh Ann and Kevin's that evening. His ashes were a mix of white dust, sand, and rock. They're all I have left of him.

Sometimes I talk to his ashes, which sit in a plastic box on my dining table. I tell him goodnight. I tell him to be a good boy when I leave.

I still walk through my front door and look down at the floor to find him waiting for me. When I get a text message and my phone vibrates I expect the noise to startle him. When I am lying in bed and facing one way, I think he is on the other side of me. But he is not here anymore. I still can't believe it.

Tonight I brought home groceries for the first time since Thanksgiving. For the first time in two years of living together, he wasn't here to inspect the bags for any food that might be his.

When I cry, my nose gets stuffy, and then I get mild panic attacks, because I imagine Jedi's last moments, how he couldn't breathe, and how I wasn't there to help him.

Jedi, I'm so sorry.