I'm still paying her bills.
She's still telling me what to do.
I've still got lemons from her tree.
Her mail keeps coming (then again, so does his).
There're fragments of poems in her notebook that she's clearly still working on.
Her friends still call and some come over.
I see her, especially at the opera.
She still gives wild and sometimes lavish gifts.
The Sunday NYT is on the doorstep with alarming regularity.
There's no stone or plaque or any other sign of her departure.