I have never quite understood the expression “falling in love”. I have rarely used it. In my 52 years with Rosemary I don’t believe either of us ever told the other, “I love you.”

In those 52 years I wrote one Valentine Card to her.

But I remember one evening in particular in Mexico City in the apartment of my friend Raúl Guerrero Montemayor. I had met Rosemary on December 15, 1967 and before we married on 8 November 1968 we crashed and lived I his upstairs loft. We slept on the floor.

In that memorable evening Rosemary was leaning on the side of a fireplace and she was looking into space with those sad eyes that were (I understand that now) a trademark. To my chagrin I never asked her about them and from whom she inherited them.

I am now sure that at that moment I fell in love, or came to love her, or was attracted her in more than just wanting to have sex with her.

Now 6 years after her death I miss that constant companionship. I miss the fact that we had similar cultural and reading interests. I miss that she was more than my intellectual equal. I miss her perspicacity for finances. I never did understand compound interest. I miss holding her hand and smelling her behind her ears. I miss that we shared brother and sister cats that slept with us. I miss that she would tell me in the morning, “Alex make the bed neat for the cats.” I miss her telling me, “The kitty litter smells. You have to change it.” I miss watching her get dressed (and undressed). Yes I miss sex with her but I miss those magical preliminary moments.

Yesterday I changed the bed linen and I had a complete bath. I miss the joint act of both of us getting into a clean bed with clean sleep wear or none in hot summers.

I miss all the desserts she used to make while I cooked the meals. I miss driving with her to concerts, films, theatre, and other cultural events. I miss being in bed and both of us reading novels of the same author (Andra Camilleri was one of them). I miss getting into our tub bath together, on opposite ends and playing with our toes.

I miss the family life we seemed to have before she died. Christmas dinners were magical. I made the roast beef and vegetables and she made the desserts.

I miss how she was my travel agent. From our bed with her iPhone se booked hotels and plane fares that were the cheapest. I miss walking with her in Venice, Firenze, Guanajuato, Madrid, Mérida and Paris. I am not too sure I will want to now travel alone anywhere.

I am surrounded by my portraits of her around my house. They make me miss her more as I miss her when I see some of her tiny perennials in our garden. I miss driving with her to nurseries and how with her supreme knowledge of plants would notice plants that would pass me by.

When I drive my Chevrolet Cruze I miss her  occupying the passenger seat. I have coined the expression “her absent presence”.

My male cat Niño died this last May. He was my cat and Niña was hers. Niño’s death is almost as terrible as my missing Rosemary now. I talk to her cat Niña, “Niña Muchi (my endearing addition to her name”, do you remember Rosemary?  Do you rember Niño?”

Niña now clings to me all day. We share; I am sure, our awareness of the death of those two.

When I get into my car or I am walking down the stairs I find myself saying out loud, "The quiero mucho." - I love you lots.

Niña is 16 years old. I want to stay alive, at least until she dies. Then I can meet my oblivion and share it with my Rosemary.