The way I miss her

She is gone and is not coming back.

I know that now.

I will never kiss her again. I am never going to wake up beside her again. I am never going to watch her sleeping again. The perfect moment when she opened her eyes and smiled - a smile that always made me feel feel as though something inside me was melting. I definitely won't see that again.

There are ten thousand things we are never going to do together again.

"You´ll meet someone else" he tells me, with all the patience that my father could never quite muster.

"Give it time. There will be another woman". He is trying to be kind.

But I don't believe a word of it.

I think that you can use up all your love. I think you can blow it all on one person.

You can love so much, so deeply that there is nothing left for anyone else. You could give it all the time in the world and  I will never find someone to fill the gap she has left.

Because how do you find a substitute for the love of your life? And why would you want to?

And perhaps I could learn to live with it if I could resist the ridiculous urge to phone her. Things would be more bearable if I could remember, really remember that she is gone and never forget it.

But I can't help it.

Once a day I go to call her. I never actually dial the number but I have come pretty close. Do you think I need to look up the number? I don't even have to remember it with my head. My fingers remember.

And I'm afraid that one day I will call her old number and somebody else will answer. Then what will happen? Then what will I do?

It can strike at any time, this urge to call her. If I'm happy or sad or worried, I suddenly get this need to talk to her about it. The way we always did when we were - I nearly said LOVERS - but it was that and much more. Together, when we were together.

She's gone and I know she's gone. It's just that sometimes I forget. That's all...

(...)

Courtesy of Tony Parsons.

***

I couldn't believe how accurate, in every sense of the word, the above message is. I was shocked; dazed for hours at the uncanny similarity with my own situation. How could Tony Parsons now so much about my case? How did he know about the words of my brother when he tried to comfort me? And my father's inability to do so? How does he know about the phone number, etched in the mysterious memory of my fingers, and the daily urge to call?

Has he been reading my blog and FB updates?

Maybe he has. And if he has, I'm eternally greateful.