Sometimes I think he's still there. Or, more precisely, still here.
I know, of course, that he's not — but when I am engrossed in something that I'm reading or watching on TV, I notice that part of my mind just naturally thinks of talking to him about it, like the next thing I'll do.
I still think of all sorts of items as his.
It is slowly sinking in that, apart from the building itself, everything I see in this place is mine. Well, except for a few things still to be parcelled up and sent to his kids. He left few bequests; he trusted me, as his executor, to do the right thing by others. I have sent some of the bequests already, and also some mementoes I thought his children and grandchildren would like —and I was right; they do. There are still some items which are a bit hard to post, but I'm figuring it out. Apart from those few bequests, he left it all to me.
I'm not talking about great wealth, not in financial terms (though there are other kinds of treasures). I'm just noticing how I still think of 'Andrew's iMac', designate particular books as his, and so on. But in fact they all belong to me now and I have absolute authority to say what shall become of them. Right now this doesn't make me happy, it makes me sad.