In as much as I imagine Michael's long suffering sigh as (yet again) the volume goes up when Depeche Mode, The Cult or Amy Winehouse comes on, I also hear his little clucky noise as (yet again) I serve something that isn't beef, chicken or pork. I giggle when I remember his enthusiasm at wonderful things and I smile when I think of how strong and comforting his arms were when I needed them most.
But I know he's not here. I won't hear him trundle down the stairs, I won't find him snoozing on the couch, and I won't catch him snooping in the kitchen, hoping to figure out what it is I'm planning to serve us for supper.
Four years on. It doesn't get easier. It just gets less difficult.
cheers!jasmineI'm a quill for hire!