Ari is in New Orleans, struggling for social justice, and I am here in Oakland, missing him. I feel his blank space in my car, and the empty side, or slightly more than a side, of my bed. Yesterday I grabbed one of his clean shirts out of my dresser. Today, I grabbed one his dirty shirts out of my laundry basket. I smell Saturday afternoon in San Juan Capistrano, his suntan lotion and his sweat. I want to feed his chickens. I want to swim laps.