I miss having a home

I have a house I live in. I don't have a home and I miss that. John was my best friend. He still is.

But when he was here physically, I felt totally and completely safe, loved, and at home with him. That's what I miss. This house is no longer a home without him. It's just the place I live in now. Before it was our home, our safe place to land, the place we came to feel loved and cared for, cherished. I miss that.

I've thought about moving from this house because maybe it would be easier to not be in a place where he had touched every inch of it. We remodeled this house quite a bit and John is everywhere here. He even built the desk I write on and spend my day at. But I wouldn't dream of getting rid of it. Sometimes I am reluctant to even move something or throw something out because he used it. I have to recover the kitty windowsill in my office before the shutters are put in next week and I feel bad because John recovered the windowsill last. It's silly I know and if I say something to some people about this they look at me like I'm weird. 

Sometimes I feel like I am erasing him and I know that is irrational and if John were here he would smile at me and say "Joof [one of his nicknames for me], don't be silly. You can never erase me. I know you love me." 

But feelings aren't rational. They just are.