In the 21 months I have been without Bronnie, I may or may not have suffered the ‘stages of grief’. Certainly, not as usually prescribed if I have, indeed, gone through:
Although I do recognise the Anger stage. This happened at a family function where I wanted to stab a man for having the audacity to ask me to dance at a dinner dance. Dinner was fine, I could do the dinner bit, but the dancing part felt odd without Bronnie mashing my feet into the ground every third rotation. Bronnie was the sort of dancer who listened intently for the beat and then did everything in his power to go the other way and avoid it. He and rhythm were not kissing cousins; indeed Most of the time they weren’t even on speaking terms. I miss that.