The day of my husband’s funeral the sun was shining.
The sky was blue with little wisps of clouds.
The air was crisp.
It was a beautiful day.
The weather seemed like a rebuke. On the saddest day for my sons and me, how could it be such a beautiful day?
But it was.
Somewhere people were laughing. Babies were being born. Plans being made.
Regardless of our pain, the world went on.
In retrospect, I am glad that it was a beautiful day.
It was the kind of day that he would have gone for a bike ride.
It was the kind of day that he would have worked in the garage or done yardwork.
He was a happy, optimistic, easy-going guy.
A gloomy day with dark clouds and drizzle would not have resonated with his personality.
In his last months, when he had endured treatments, operations and the dignities that accompany long-term cancer, he still had a ready smile and a joke for others.
A precious memory for me is that we often sang together in the evenings when no one was around. We held hands and sang off-key, making up the words that we had forgotten.
A beautiful day
It’s never good to bury your husband, father, son, brother, uncle.
Yet, it had to be done.
As it had to be done, I am glad that it was a beautiful day.
* My Husband died several years ago. For the most part, my intense grief has subsided. As I live my life, memories bubble up. Each presents an opportunity for me to revisit and dissipate some of the intense emotions associated with the loss of a loved one.