I didn’t go to the gravesite memorial for my ex-husband when he passed—I regret this.

Here his cremains sit on my mantel, and his books and memorabilia are stored in my basement—and yet I didn’t go to the grave.

Something feels missing. His whole death still seems surreal. Then again, maybe this life is the illusion?

My entire life has returned to me like a movie and it’s kind of intense, to say the least. Perhaps grief has caught up?

I recall my ex-husband distinctly asking out of the blue in his 30s if I would attend his funeral. We were married, and it was an odd question at the time. I shrugged it off. The meaning behind the question that I did not pick up on at the time was the silent depression.

This haunts me today. The things that I missed and the life we had.

They say hindsight is 20/20 looking back, and as we cannot take back the time, we move forward. There is no letting go I fear, for grief has settled here. I am not ready to let go. I never was ready. I will let the grief move me into action and this action is my writing.

I’m currently writing a book based on grief and poetry—and other creative pieces are emerging. To be honest, the entire book is written in my head, and I only have two chapters on the computer. The book is fiction and yet weaved with my own pain and life story. I feel like every piece, fictional or not, is weaved with a writer’s own life experience.

My ex-husband is showing up as a regular in my dreams, and I am not sure if this is because of the book I am writing, the men I have been talking with, or the pandemic trauma? Come Spring, I want to take a road trip to the small town when he rests. I imagine the flowers returning again then, and with them, hope.

My favorite flowers are lilies, of any kind, and I feel that white ones are in order.

~

Where White Lilies Lie

Where the whitest lilies lie, I will stand before you still.

In silent reverence, I shall bow and weep and mourn for the day is over and the hour past, yet still this heart beats on dear, yet still, a heart beats fast.

Birds, wind, rain, and snow have fallen, and days become years, and yet, this heart beats on my dear, and this heart beats fast.

I shall return with flowers and words, for all I have is words dear, all I have is words.

Here, my love, the whitest lilies lie.