Small Holes

There's a spot in the dishwasher, towards the right in back on the bottom rack, that is just right for that blue water bottle that Herself always brought for Cherished Friend when they went for walks.  Herself thinks of that water bottle each time she loads and unloads the dishwasher.  She needn't leave room for it right now.
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When quarter to eight rolls around, Herself recollects that at that time, she used to finalize the filling of the water bottles and the packaging up of any food, to leave the house and join Cherished Friend for walks.  Now at quarter to eight, she must battle the wave of inertia that reminds her that she has no particular place to be that evening.  Alas.
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Herself drives along the back road, on the way to pick up Offspring the Third from an evening activity.  As she heads towards the spot where she would normally park for the evening walk, she finds herself looking for Cherished Friend's vehicle. Always so timely, Cherished Friend is.  It has always made her glad to know that when he has agreed to meet her someplace, he is always there.  She looks forward to the time when she can anticipate him being there again -- even though she doesn't know when that will be.
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The refrigerator was a tad bare, and Herself opted to go to the warehouse store to purchase the traditional large quantities of commonly-used items.  It's an errand that she would usually run with Cherished Friend.  This time, she pushed the cart herself, and didn't bother perusing all of the aisles.  There is little pleasure in the solitary performance of errands, when one is accustomed to company.
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So many small holes, like gaps in the fabric of space and time. You are missing, and missed, our Cherished Friend.