This feels like the hard part. I am lonely for her. It's a hole. It's pretty physical.
It's not the hole in the ground someone alluded to, stating that in the begining of grief one falls into the dark hole, but as time goes on one grieves but learns to walk around the hole.
This hole is inside me.
I have many moments now in a perfectly lovely day where I'm doing enjoyable work either on the farm or in the studio, and I get very hurt that she's not there anymore - not there to talk to.
This is the Quiet Little Sack of Sadness.
I suppose one should remember there are so many carrying one of these sacks - you never know how hurt someone might be the day you encounter them.