How long, I wonder, will I continue to filter life's events through John's eyes? "John would have loved this." "John would not have allowed that." "John would have the answer."

This past month included many events and experiences that John would have loved - watching his son and grandson play in a father-son tennis tournament; inspecting the almost-completed basement remodeling; having dinner with his kids; making new friends at another dinner, listening to music.

I attended six concerts in one week, reveling in the Methow Valley Chamber Music Festival. In addition to exquisite music, each concert was rich in remembrance.

John was open-minded about music; he appreciated anything done well - from classics to country-western. He would have thoroughly enjoyed the high-level artistry of the chamber concerts.

I still have deep places that swell up in my chest and behind my eyes at times, but I find myself grieving less and fantasizing more these days - fantasizing that John is with me, doing whatever it is I'm doing.

Tell me, veteran widows and widowers, is this another stage in the so-called grief process, this fantasy person at my side?

I was particularly inspired to fantasize at the music festival, where I identified with the audience - predominantly grey-headed (those who had hair). It's chamber music, after all.

You have to acquire a certain level of wisdom and insight to appreciate it. Some people, primarily the musicians, do so at a young age. For the rest of us, it may take a few years.

I watched all those AARP-aged couples, and imagined what John and I would have been like as a couple at this age, not constrained by wheelchair or separation of death.

We would have "howdy'd" and chatted with folks we knew; we would have sipped wine together at intermission; we would have arranged our chairs so we could lean into each other during the passionate, slow movements; we would have talked excitedly about the music and musicians during the hour-long drive home.

At the Tuesday concert, I arrived early enough to get a front-row seat, so close that I could read the music on the first violinist's stand.

The final piece that night was a Franck piano quintet. The five musicians performed with such ecstatic perfection that I felt as if I were elevated three inches off my chair.

But when I saw the first violinist turn to the last page of music, I had a momentary sense of dismay. "Oh, no," I thought. "I don't want it to end."

Of course, it did. It had to.

"Nothing is forever," John had told me once, long ago, when we were struggling to get through a particularly tough time.

His comment returned to me as I drove home from the concert, guardedly watching the dark mountain highway, on the alert for deer as he'd taught me. We were having our after-concert conversation.

"I suppose you're right," I answered. "The musicians did stop playing. But why is it then, that I can still hear the music?"

(Mary Koch is a freelance writer and editor. She can be contacted at www.marykoch.com)