“Here’s me, reading one of your Charlie Brown books (“You’re on your own, Snoopy” – wonder why I chose that one)”

“Here’s the grieving widow, having to park in the car park under the flyover we used to go to together.”

“Here’s the grieving widow, looking at the spot on the ramp, where I always used to drop you off for work, thinking that I just have to see that as another life now, a previous life.”

“Here’s the grieving widow, trying not to look up at the building in which you used to work.”

“Here’s the grieving widow, going into the Solicitors which we once used when we were buying our house, thinking how strange it is that I’m now going in on my own on different business.”

“Here’s the grieving widow, imagining you walking round the streets you were familiar with, knowing I’ll never bump into you again, never be able to tell you what I’ve been up to.”

“Here’s me, overwhelmed with profoundness (yes, I know, profundity) and loss.”

“Here’s me, on my own.”

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