She'll never drink the rest of that bottle of spiced berry cordial.
She'll never finish the packet of Honey Hoops, or complete the other half of Just Wordsearch magazine (volume 199), or eat the other three quarters of a melon in the fridge.
She'll never read today's news headlines, or find out who killed Archie Mitchell, or listen to the last CD I bought her.
She'll never make me another lemon meringue pie, or pick the bobbles off my new jumper, or tell me my shirt needs ironing (and fetch the ironing board and actually iron it).
She'll never get her free TV licence, or need her National Trust 2010 membership card, or attend her next scheduled outpatients appointment.
She'll never see the snow melt, or plant that potted primrose in the flower bed, or watch her garden bloom into life next spring.
She'll never craft another lace masterpiece, or invite the patchwork ladies round for an afternoon of sewing, or add her signature to next year's hand-stitched birthday cards piled ready in the spare room.
She'll never sit back in her cushioned chair in the corner, or shoot another knowing look across the living room, or ring me up on a Sunday evening and tell me what she really thinks.
She'll never read this blog again, or spot the latest spelling mistake that I missed, or send me a helpful email pointing it out.
She'll never enjoy another Christmas, or share another birthday, or celebrate her Golden Wedding.
She'll never flick through all the cards of sympathy, or read the 100+ comments you wrote on Thursday's post, or hear the heartfelt tributes of fellow villagers at her funeral service.
She'll never have to take another handful of tablets, or put up with persistent debilitating pain (without complaining), or spend another hateful night in hospital.
She'll never see the grandkids grow up, or watch me go grey, or be the one left living home alone.
She'll never know any of the things the rest of us will take for granted. But she will always be a part of them.