A Memoirby Martha Weinman Lear
After my husband died, we kept in touch. We had good talks.
By this I mean nothing paranormal—I have no taste or talent for paranormal adventures—but simply that there was the sense that he was still with me or, rather, within me now, dissolved and flowing within me now, like some natural substance, like blood.
This is a common sensation among mourners (internalizing, the psychotherapists call it), and very nice, more comforting than Valium or booze, although, I must say, they came in handy too.
Whenever this sensation was upon me, and regrettably it lasted for only moments at a time, I had the feeling that I was not diminished by his death (and in fact we all are, in some interior way, diminished by the death of a beloved) but bigger, better, stronger than before, being not just myself but the sum of all that we had been together.