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The first anniversary of my husbands death passed last week. For some reason I remember a conversation we had in the early years of our twenty year friendship. Things were not going well at work and he was getting depressed. And you know how depression is. It might start with a real event and then all the gremlins creep out of the woodwork and administer a mass kicking. Irrationally he was bemoaning that he thought he wasn’t making me happy. I told him the truth – you have never given me a moments grief. His smile was beautiful. There had been a lot of grief – both sides – in his first marriage.

He was a generous man. What made living in the hell-hole which is London tolerable was that he would take me on holidays, which I could not have afforded myself, several times a year. In twenty years that is a lot of holidays and many happy memories.

Looking out at the woodland from my window after the rain I see a rainbow, and I remember the coach holiday in Scotland where the sun and showers alternated and we saw seven rainbows one after the other.

I have a simple meal of sardines and salad and remember a similar meal in “The Pelican” in the harbour at Paphos.

Every time I hear Pavarotti I think of him. It seems there is nothing I can do or nowhere I can go which does not awaken, sometimes a long forgotten, memory of him, and all the memories are sweet.

Grief is not always like this. I have lost people dear to me before and the agony was long term and indescribable. I do not know why it is different this time. I was married to a wonderful man. A generous, loving soul who looked after people and enjoyed making them laugh.

In life and death he has never caused me a moments grief.

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