At internment, just as the sun started burning hot and still through summer afternoon clouds, when they lowered her coffin into the dirt, the wind blew up like crazy.
I have greater hope in the belief that perhaps, maybe, we do go on.
I never witnessed a man love a woman, a husband love a wife, so much with words shared from a pulpit. Last kisses and touches, hands shaking as pictures were pulled from a breast pocket and tucked into silent, folded hands. I had to look away, stare into my lap, such a personal, intimate moment. And, as we do, I reflected it back on myself for a selfish moment, wondering if I'll ever be so worthy. So cherished.
I don’t know the answer yet.
I know I want more laughter than weeping when my time comes for gathering and goodbyes. Secretly hope for standing room only.
And more hand holding right now.
Soon, I may pick up the phone to call her for lunch before realizing that’s no longer an option.
I know peace is better than ongoing pain.