Sometimes I just look at something and think "I put that there before Adam died," and I decide to leave it there forever. I found a bottle of strawberry milk mix in the refrigerator that was clearly there for Adam, and can't bear to throw it out. I was dusting the upstairs bathroom and thought, "This dust was probably here before Adam died." How weird is that?
I was discussing ashes last night with a friend who was widowed young. It was an easy conversation. She spread her husband's ashes after 7 years, as per his wishes. Adam, of course, left no instructions or time to discuss such things. It was probably the last thing on his mind.
So his ashes, his remains, stay on the fireplace mantel. Bits have made it to Nebraska and the labyrinth at Spring Lake, even back into my body. As I consider Pat's and my own death (I know, but we do these things in "middle age"), I think about a permanent marker somewhere, probably in Macomb. If we pick out a plot and headstone, I believe Adam will be included there, but I can't say I'm in a real hurry. As my friend said, "You'll do it when you're ready."
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Conversations over the weekend with family have left me thinking of headstones, footstones and all kinds of stones. Usually I think of stones as weighing me down and I try to rid myself of them. But stones also carry history and memories, etchings and memorials. It's more than I'm ready for to even be contemplating M&D's headstones and burials, and yet you've faced a far greater tragedy with grace and courage.
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