Through all the busy-ness, through all the going-to-Paris, and work, and the garden, and the dogs and ... whatever, I just miss her so much sometimes.
This is the second birthday without her. The last one we celebrated together, she was in the hospital, and I smuggled cold chicken and a half-bottle of sparkling white wine and raspberries in, and we went up to the roof garden built for the Hospice, which is beautiful and peaceful, and we had a picnic, and it was very special.
Every time I'm in a bookstore and I see a book she would have loved, I want to get it for her, and I have consciously to stop myself from picking it up and buying it. I don't know how much longer I'll go on wanting to buy things for her.
And I want her there to talk to about the garden, and about how Cholmondeley the dog is getting thin but still doing okay, and about how Bill and Judith have a new puppy and isn't that great since Henry died, and about all the crap at work, and about how Mavis is doing, and about the postcard I got from her cousins in England, and about Ed and Anita's granddaughter at University, and about all the books I'm reading, and the new people on the street, and about doings on Coronation Street, and about the lovely new market downtown, and my plans for the dining room, and...
But she's not there. And I just miss her so much.