She stood in front of the mirror that hung in the crematorium lobby, checking her hair and makeup
She wore his favorite dress
This would be the last time she would see him
And just in case he was able to see her….
She wanted to look her best.
She stood in front of the cold steel table where his body lay.
Layers of blankets and sheets and blankets and sheets, covering everything but his face .
She turned slightly, this way and that in each direction, as she read our letters to him out loud.
She held each paper up a little, just in case he was there and wanted to read over her shoulder.
And he would. We all knew he would want to see the words that he was hopefully hearing.
He would want to read over her shoulder
Because he would never believe it otherwise. How much we loved him.
She and we had 10 years to show him a world that wasn’t ugly or cruel.
To show him a world unlike the childhood he knew, full of fear and pain.
To hold his hand for no reason other than joy
To try big things together for no reason other than life
To love him for no other reason than he was Jerry
She laid our letters, along with orange daisies, on his chest.
“Are we sure he’s really dead?” asked their little boy
We turned and walked back through the massive metal doors.
Which were light compared to our sadness.
Which were ephemeral compared to our parting.
We walked back towards the lobby and past the mirror.
Noticing every chip in the tile floor, crack in the wall, and finger smudge on the door.
Noticing the smell of wet pavement outside, resting under sheets of fresh rain
Feeling the weight of southern air.
All of our senses trying hard to distract us
And move us forward
Back into the car.
