I remember her always upbeat, with a quick wit and big smile. She is older now. Grey, and slower in her steps.

"When my husband died, I didn't want to live anymore.
I went to the kitchen and took out some fish to cook for our lunch. And then I remembered I'd need only one piece. Such a little thing, but I broke down... every day... little things, and I'd cry.
Death is so final. One day, he was there. The next, he was gone; and it was done.
I'd go to his cupboard, bury my head in the smell of his clothes. But soon, that was gone too."

We spend a year with someone, or two. When it ends, we are sometimes sad but life goes on and things are fluid enough that something takes the place of the one that's gone. I see people my age, in love, but then it's over and nothing really changes. It is something that I am grateful for; the ability to cut someone out of my life and carry on without any great pain or regret.
It is my gift.

But then I see her, and wonder what it must be like to love someone so much that your life ends when they leave. It must be beautiful. It must be devastating. Even though I can't imagine it, it must be...