What happens (or doesn’t happen) when you are gone. It has been many days since my Stella left us. It’s way too soon to say if time heals all wounds - no one can really know how long it might take if they have lost someone they have been with for over 40 years. A wife, soulmate, partner, friend, lover, teammate: any of the words that describe what it is like to have had a special mate like Stella. This is very difficult, but here goes: I still dog-ear pages from newspapers and magazines so that she can read them later. I still bookmark articles from the Internet so she can read them when she has time. I still yell at the TV when West Ham lets me down, expecting her to tell me, ”It’s only a game.” We can’t sit together and discuss what the next week’s menus will be, and what we need to get on Thursday or Friday, our usual grocery shopping days. We can’t sit and watch Morse or Lewis, even though we have seen them umpteen times. We can’t go to bed early, because there’s rubbish on the telly, and read or do our Codewords or Sudokus. I don’t get told to keep my eyes off her puzzles and just do my own. I can’t share my latest Death Metal or Punk find, even though I’ll be looked at as if I was crazy for listening to “that stuff.” On cold nights, or warm nights for that matter, we can’t have a kiss and cuddle before we drift off to sleep. We won’t wake up and start the day with a cup of tea. Her special “Cup of Husband’s” No more looking at our diary and discussing who needs a card or text or WhatsApp or phone call to celebrate a birthday, anniversary, or Christmas. So many things that won’t be shared, or laughed about, or argued over. And they’ll all be missed. John