duty

Through the process, the 5 1/2 hour rosary-prayer vigil, the closing ceremony next day at the funeral home, the funeral mass, the graveside service complete with mariachis singing several songs in Spanish concluding with "Ave Maria" which brings tears to my eyes in the best of times, the white dove released, the dirt scattered handful by handful into the grave, the lunch following, I have tried to play my part with the dignity and politeness my wife is entitled to. 

I shook dozens of hands, hugged and was hugged by hundreds of people I did and did not know, cried silently for hours on end.  I did not -- did not have the chance really -- to hug or kiss my wife goodbye that Saturday she left on the plane.  I kissed her, what was left of her, goodbye as she lay there in the coffin, touching her hand where it was bruised by the IV.  I put a sunflower in her coffin before it was closed, rejecting the rose I was offered.  It was a grand funeral of tradition and ceremony worthy of a duchess but not worthy of my wife. 

Alone I went to her graveside Sunday morning and sang the song she had asked me to sing over her grave.  (She knew she would die first, but not yet.)

I did my job.  That part at least.   The rest goes on.  The responsibility of keeping a small empire together continues and increases.  But oh the hole in my life is so great.  It's all hole really, all emptiness and duty and task.  I must be worthy.