I miss her having her own life for herself: her own habits, pleasures, foibles….
......look, a woman dies and the little things she loved no longer mean anything.
When a person is alive, all the things they hold dear are in three dimension. But when they die, these things seem to go flat, as if the life is taken out of them too. It is as though these too have had their day and their time is gone.
Her special things become special to no one.
And the job of loving herself in her own particular way through her own small things will not be taken on by anyone else.
Not even by those who loved her best, and well.