My husband died eight years ago. People sometimes ask if I still miss him every day, and I always say yes because that seems like the acceptable answer.
The truth is I don't. Some days I wake up, work, laugh, eat dinner, watch television, and never think about him once. Then I feel guilty when I realize it. Other days, a smell or song destroys me. Grief isn't constant loyalty. Sometimes life simply occupies the whole day, and the dead return tomorrow.