I could never have imagined that someone would be so much more all-consuming in death than they are in life. But, unlike when they’re here, after they die every single thing about them is meaningful, even the smallest and most insignificant detail. And so every day I lose something else. The last time I smelled him on the car seat covers. The last time I found his dried-up missing sock in the door seal of the washing machine. The last time a bill came in his name; god, how quickly they want you to move on, declare him gone, rub him out. ‘We’ll delete him from our records, madam, sorry for your loss.’ The things to lose never seem to end, yet the most terrifying thing is that I know one day they will.

I don’t want to be here but I don’t want to leave either. I have two grown-up girls who don’t need me any more, but what if they did? And if I were to gently and quietly follow that darling man to wherever he’s gone and then one of my crazy fantasies came true (my favourite is that he comes back to earth as a cow, or a flower or a baby, like the Buddhists believe) and I wasn’t here – what then? The truth is, I’m scared to step forward into a life without him, and it’s too painful to stand still while he remains so present. It’s pathetic and it’s undignified, so I distract myself from thinking about it by talking to those very useful strangers. And I work hard to remember every detail of every day I ever spent with my husband, so I’ll always have something left to lose.

I have no idea who you are, Danny Mulberry; what you really believe, how you’ve lived, who you’ve loved and who you’ve lost. But you look nice.

My husband’s name was Martin Matthews. Maybe you’ll say it for me sometimes.

Anna, Southwark

HAPPINESS IS NOT IN ANOTHER PLACE

Dear Anna, I’m very sorry about your husband, he certainly does sound nice. I’m glad you think I am too, and even though I’m really not sure you’re right, I do like to think I always mean well.

My father was definitely someone you’d call nice, and I wish he were around now for you to talk to. He would have listened well and I’m sure he would also have had some words of wisdom, because he knew a lot about grief and he was the most dignified man I’ve ever known. He was a big fan of poetry, like your husband – he also loved a red wine, but always tea not coffee, and I never saw him on a pair of rollerblades. His favourite poet was Walt Whitman, and Dad used to say there was a Whitman for every occasion. On my last day of school he gave me a Whitman poem, which he’d copied out in his lovely handwriting and had framed. He told me it was for the occasion of my life. I wish I could remember it now, but that frame is long gone and I’m drawing a blank. I mention this because, as it goes, my sister chose a Whitman poem for the occasion of my father’s funeral, called ‘Song of the Open Road’. I’m not so clever as to have remembered the exact words, of course, but Google has come to my rescue and I share it here because I think it may give you some comfort.