With the passing of time$$$ she would slowly tire of this exercise. She would find it increasingly exhausting to conjure up$$$ to dust off$$$ to resuscitate once again what was long dead. There would come a day$$$ in fact$$$ years later$$$ when [she] would no longer bewail his loss. Or not as relentlessly; not nearly. There would come a day when the details of his face would begin to slip from memory's grip$$$ when overhearing a mother on the street call after her child by [his] name would no longer cut her adrift. She would not miss him as she did now$$$ when the ache of his absence was her unremitting companion--like the phantom pain of an amputee.