I lost my husband six months ago.
I am a somewhat singer/songwriter, I play guitar, not great but well enough to write a song or do a cover song. I sing most nights, as I also sang to “Him” every night. (During that 4 years of cancer, he found it relaxing to lie on the sofa and listen to me). Every once in awhile he would say, “that was good”. Now I sing to his spirit. I feel it is the closest I can get to him, to connect – I hope he hears me when I do Guadelupe by Tom Russell, or Bruce’s favorite lullaby, Go to Sleep Little Cowboy, your Momma is here….. I started a song before he died. “I Don’t Dance Anymore”. Now I can’t finish my song. I want to dance, but I haven’t yet. It’s only been six months. I have his ashes, in a plastic bag wrapped with an antique grain sack and tied with a piece of twine. They sit on the dresser like a limp body with a rosary entwined, a photo of Jesus of the Devine Mercy.
I need to put the remains in the box. I have one, it seems constrained. I need to bury them. I can’t look at his pictures but I can sing. I can sing to him. Sing for me. We were together 40 years.