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| It rained for weeks after the burial, delaying the finish & smoothing of the site. |
I went impulsively back to the cemetery today; back to my husband's burial spot. Today was deceptively sunny, with deep crystal blue overhead, but out-of-doors it was cold; and it seemed even more so at the burial ground.
Through long rainy spells after the burial, the grounds had swiftly become too wet for mowing, and too muddy for top-dressing the grave. I knelt on one knee and apologized silently to him for the undeniable lack of neatness and order, and when I stood up, my slacks and my shoes were coated with the rain-infused clay that covered the spot where my dear one was lying.
I remembered the recent day of his calling hours, and the day of his funeral and wake, when the weather above our heads and beneath our feet and in the warmth of the air all around us was idyllic. It could not have been more beautiful, and we were grateful for that despite the deep sadness within us.
The following days were windy, rainy and cold, and we seemed to be walking in clouds that were glued to the ground, and that seemed somehow reflective of the depth of our loss.
Before my visit, today had seemed beautiful as viewed from the windows of the home we had built, and in which we had lived for our 25 years of retirement. We had been happy there; we were pleased with our life there. In the days that followed his death, I felt his presence there more than anywhere else.
But not on this day at the cemetery, in the cold and unavoidably sloppy demeanor of the normally beautiful grounds of the old Concord Cemetery we had long ago chosen together as our resting place when our last days would arrive.
I drove slowly home. There, in the sun through the windows, with my dog warm against me, I mourned what was lost. And I could feel the same from my dog.
I drove slowly home. There, in the sun through the windows, with my dog warm against me, I mourned what was lost. And I could feel the same from my dog.
