Loss is hard to quantify, especially when it is the loss of your wife of sixty years and happens to be the love of your life, the very air you breathe, the fuel of your existence and the most treasured phenomenon you ever laid eyes on.
The place you inhabit, once simultaneously a paradise of gaiety and serenity, becomes bereft of its soul, its raison d’être and its most cherished companion who gave you hope when things went wrong, who nurtured you to keep your spirits up and who kept vigil when your health had the occasional bad turn.
The love was intricately intertwined as if it was one single unit, as if two bodies were one, indivisible whatever the circumstances and the vagaries of time.
A loneliness that one has not experienced before descends upon you and destabilises every vestige of your once disciplined life. It makes you a forlorn being without proper roots, struggling to reinvent yourself without the guidance of your loved one.
It is only the memories that keep me from utter despair. Hopefully her words, which I hear from time to time, will eventually give me the stamina to carry on the way she wanted me to without her physical presence.
Nevertheless, she will remain the most integral part of me until the day I die.