Yesterday I put flowers on my husband’s grave. I do this whenever I make the trip home. For eight years I have brought new silk flowers to fill the marble urn on the headstone that marks his little plot of ground. There are people that think this is a waste of time and money. Terry doesn’t know or care if there are flowers on his grave. Actually, Terry didn’t see any reason to spend money on flowers when he was alive. The irony never fails to amuse me: I’ve put more flowers on his grave than he ever gave to me during our marriage. And I’m ok with that.
To be clear: I don’t put flowers on his grave to make Terry happy. I know Terry’s not in that cemetery. It’s just his shell that we buried. I do it because I want anyone that passes his gravesite to know that he was important to someone. Flowers are the only way I have left to say he was loved. It’s the one place that allows me to openly honor him. I will continue to refresh the bouquets as long as I can, in memory of the husband and father that Terry was. In memory of the love that I cherish to this day.