Today, as I was folding laundry in my room, I felt the pinpricks of tears, the sadness start to well up. So, I did something I've decided I am going to do when the need strikes: I went to talk to my husband.
Some people have grave sites to visit, we don't. We have a lovely urn picked out that looks just like a beautiful galaxy... a perfect place for his ashes. But for me, talking to a bottle of ashes feels silly. He's not there for me.
There is a spot on our farm where I can sit and look out at the field, the sky, the hawks and trees and feel the wind. I sat there for a long time on the day he died. It is, forever whatever reason, where I feel he can hear me. And no one else can hear me. Scream, sometimes. Cry, mostly. Tell him how much I miss him and love him and beg for help to get through one more day. To tell him how much the week sucked or how we've acquired yet another animal or how much his son is looking more and more like him and how much his daughter misses him, even if she can't say it.
How I hope he's ok, at peace. How much I want him to be free and how much I wish I could feel him, one more time.
It's a little strange, because that hill is a mess of weeds, tall grasses and anthills. But that spot, my spot, remains bare. Waiting when I need it.