Today when I was home alone I washed all of her clothes and watched them dry in the sun. Then I put them away.

There have always been photographs of my daughter in my office, on the shelves and on the walls. But for the first year or so afterwards, there were no pictures of her on display at home because her father was unable to look at them. The sight of them rendered him immobile, and at the time it seemed important to be able to keep moving, even if in miniscule increments. We now have a few photographs of her on the living-room walls, and I keep some on my dressing table in our bedroom. I wear a locket containing two photographs of her that my little boy likes to look at, and sometimes kiss, before he goes to bed. Before I turn out the light and say goodnight, my daughter’s five-year-old brother drinks milk out of her sippy cup, although he has been too old for a baby’s cup for some time. When this ritual started, this drinking of milk from her cup before sleep, I cannot recall, but for him no other cup will do.