you're the smell before rain, you're the blood in my veins

When someone you love dies, and you’re not expecting it, you don’t lose her all at once; you lose her in pieces over time — the way the mail stops coming, and her scent fades from the pillows and even from the clothes in her closet and drawers. Gradually, you accumulate the parts of her that are gone. When the day comes — when there’s a particular missing part that overwhelms you with the feeling that she’s gone, forever — there comes another day, and another specifically missing part.

John Irving