It was twelve years ago yesterday when I married my husband (erm, my first husband).
It was seven years ago yesterday when I scattered his remains in the Atlantic Ocean.
I suppose people are right when they say it gets easier as the years pass, although I don't think it's as much that the pain subsides as it is that you become accustomed to it. It becomes as much a part of you as the love itself. Then one day you wake to discover, not that you miss them any less, not that it no longer hurts, but that you have accepted it and are simply all out of tears to shed.