Visiting the Cemetary

My husband passed away almost 3 years ago from esophageal cancer and visiting the cemetary brings out much anger in me to this day. I look at the little niche where his ashes are interred and remember him in his good days. He was a man so full of life and intelligence that it always seemed impossible that illness would ever befall him. But it did and he's gone.

Usually I feel the anger as I begin my journey to the cemetary but this last time it didn't hit until my car entered the parking lot. I'd begun to think maybe I'd gotten beyond anger to acceptance but, no.

My youngest daughter, Shelley, was with me and I kept thinking how hard this must be for her because she'd always adored her father. My girls and I agree that he was one of the best fathers a child could want. She was very quiet and circumspect as she looked at his resting place and she spoke with a calmness that belied her inner sadness. She loved and missed him but she accepted he was gone. I don't think I ever will.

I've written about the night he died and how I believe that Shelley and I saw his soul leave his body. Also, at that moment, the room was filled with a joy that was palpable and I believe it was his surprise that there really was life after death. He'd always thought that when you died you ceased to exist in any form. Remembering the intense joy I sensed in the room is the only comfort I can take from his year of illness and then death. I often wonder what happinesses he's found in the hereafter and it gives me a morsel of contentment to know he's just stepped away and not really gone.