"My husband’s death keeps sprouting new areas of loss.
He died in 2010 after a long, cruel illness, and since then I have become used to being ambushed by grief over the pain he took with such dignity, and over the loss of intimacies – coffee in bed, cycling, singing, outings with our daughters, drinks in the garden, cooking, long dinners, reading aloud, making up limericks, saving the world …
Finally, I have faced sorting his professional papers to get rid of the boxes that keep reminding me he is gone, and the rush of these different, less personal memories floods me with a new and unexpected longing.
I miss mathematicians!"
He died in 2010 after a long, cruel illness, and since then I have become used to being ambushed by grief over the pain he took with such dignity, and over the loss of intimacies – coffee in bed, cycling, singing, outings with our daughters, drinks in the garden, cooking, long dinners, reading aloud, making up limericks, saving the world …
Finally, I have faced sorting his professional papers to get rid of the boxes that keep reminding me he is gone, and the rush of these different, less personal memories floods me with a new and unexpected longing.
I miss mathematicians!"
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