At Peace

Today he rests. Out of the hiding place. Today is June 26, exactly one month prior to John’s third anniversary of his death. His yahrzeit.

I woke up knowing this was the day I would finally make peace with my fear. I felt anxious and melancholy. The day the ashes came three years ago was dreadful. An unexpected doorbell ring and a man asking me to sign a receipt sent me into hysterical sobbing on my stairway. I knew they would come at some time, but not so soon. Thankfully, Judy, my sister, was with me. She took the package and gave me the box.

I needed to put it out of sight. All I could see was hot, red, scalding fire, a furnace, and my dear husband’s body burning into ashes. I needed to hide this from me. The box went into my closet, stuck in a dark corner, covered with hats and tee shirts. There it sat for three years plus one month.

In these last years I have thought about John and his ashes. What to do? I asked him what he wanted before he died. He did not care. Somehow I did.

A ceremony with family or friends was not right for me. Nor would it have been for John. Leaving him in the closet forever was possible, but I felt unfinished. Mostly I just did not want to have to make a decision.

I asked my nephew if he could help. “Trevor, next spring when the snow melts, would you drive with me up Tioga Pass in Yosemite? I’d like to send John flying off a mountain there.”

“Yes, Auntie, I’d be honored to help you.”

John and I loved to backpack in those mountains. It felt like an appropriate place to send him to the winds.

Spring arrived. I thought about it. I was not moved to action. John remained in my closet.

I often sit in our garden. It is where I am closest to John. He built our beautiful backyard and grew luscious tomatoes in his greenhouse. I sit there now both alone and not alone. As a plant slowly goes from seed to flower, an idea bloomed in me. Let John spend the rest of his life in his garden.

Today Ben, the gardener, offered me his help. He took a screwdriver to the box I carried out of the closet. He opened the lid. Packed tightly inside were the remains. They reminded me of a pebbled beach. I imagined what it would feel like to walk on these grains. I have given up trying to understand how fire and heat turns a living body into white seashells and sand.

Ben dug a hole next to my elephant and white rose bush - both symbolic of our love-filled marriage. Then Ben left.

I placed our blueberries and strawberries and a few flowers in the bottom of the hole. I lifted John’s pebbly, beachy ashes and poured them slowly into the hole. A fuchsia sat on the top.

Sitting next to the hole, I whispered. “John, I hope this is okay with you. I wanted you near me. I am doing the best I can. I love you with every part of me.”

I stayed a while and went upstairs. Memories of John working and relaxing in the garden filled my thoughts. I did not cry. The moment had come when I could face this task with love rather than fear. Relieved with the belief that I had chosen the perfect place for John to rest. When I returned to the garden, Ben had covered the hole with the dug up dirt and put a bright red gladiola and a pure white lily on John’s little grave.

He returned the box to me and gave me a hug.

John is now where I believe he belongs. He is now part of the garden he loved so much - where he spent so much time loving all that Mother Nature gifted to him.

And now I am at peace.