Today's outfit: his gray ribbed knit Jil Sander sweater. He bought it just before Christmas and only wore it once, yet it's hopelessly infused with the airy smell of his skin.
I've tried to describe him so many times, I want you to know what he looks like but whatever I write just comes out bland and misleading. All I see when I close my eyes and try to remember are the dehumanized little details, filtered through a soft morning light just before he left: collarbones, veins, eyelashes, shoulders. I wouldn't post pictures of him even if he wanted me to, it's not how I want to remember him when it ends.
My grandfather is forever captured in a snowstorm in Moscow's Red Square, the photograph makes the subtle fear in his eyes seem more tangible. It's beyond a simple memory, something that's infused in my mind and under Henry's sweater my skin smells of him.