I read this somewhere and felt it applied to how I feel and I'm sure many others here.

"Then there was the missing. The bottomless missing. Of course I knew that I would miss Bernie, but what I didn't know until those hyperconscious nights was that grieving would be so much more than any missing I'd experienced up until now. Missing, the way I looked at it was what you felt for someone who didn't happen to be around at the moment. Someone you'd see again in an hour or a week or a month, swooping in from the airport, spiral-eyed with jet lag. Someone off at Gorilla Coffee to buy Sumatra Roast, or away at an academic conference, wearing a name tag: Hi my name is Bernie. Someone who would take off the name tag and come back, back home, to me. No, this task of grieving was so much more than missing. It was more like homesickness for a home that was no longer there. A home that had been swept away by a tidal wave, or sucked into a giant sinkhole, or knocked down by a bulldozer to make way for a new Bed Bath & Beyond, never to be seen again. This grieving for my husband was like a permanent exile from that lost home. Like an asylum seeker in a strange land, I would have to learn to live in this world bereft of familiarity, bereft of comfort. Bereft." --Saturday Night Widows by Becky Aikman