Lamentation

The last time I saw my husband, felt him, held him, he was dead. 

I was so afraid to see his body. I had no idea what to expect. It had been over a week since they delivered the news of his death, I prepared myself as best I could. 
Deep breath, Lindsey.
He's in there. 

Once the funeral director had set everything up I was allowed to be with him. Gasps of horror, deep, painful sorrow. I began to sob. I hadn't really cried before this moment. 
None of it had seemed real before I saw him. And then I caressed his head and felt the staples in his skull from the autopsy. 
I jumped back. Scared and unsure. I was pleading with myself to wake up from this nightmare but it just continued. Our life together was crumbling and shattering in front of my eyes and I couldn't do anything to stop it. His body was cremated two days later. 

10 months in, I am still recovering from the burns. 
I was with him in that box. 

I can't describe in words how painful it is to know that he was being burned. He was dead. I know he didn't feel it and this is what he wanted. Part of me is grateful because I can't promise that if he were buried, I may or may not try to dig him up. 

I've witnessed pain like this in the flesh only once. Watching a mother scream and wail, clinging to her son's dead body, determined to be buried with him. 

Strangers suffering silently, effortlessly mourning, waking up early to cry alone. Shifting with every crack, some cracks have scarred over but they are deep and still tender. 
Roots. 

Christopher and I nurtured each other, we planted our tree. 


When you love someone those roots start to form. Some relationships can be easily plucked, and some, no matter how much you dig and tug, they aren't going anywhere. It settles within you. Like the earth beneath your feet. 

I'm tripping. Fumbling around, accomplishing daily tasks and existing in a non committal society of social media and chance encounters. 
Cultivating relationships with people that will allow me to drone on about Christopher and how much we love him. 
Who aren't bothered by my tears. 
Who experience my joy and accept this scarred heart. 
Because they know, they're scarred too. 

Father's Day is going to be brutal. 
The hurts will continue and I'm beginning to understand why people claim grief is worst the first and second year. 

All the memories and flashbacks from August are flooding my thoughts. Pain I haven't allowed myself to feel because it wasn't real. 
He's not deployed. 
He's not coming home. 
The death certificate should be here any day. 

It's real. 
The scars run deep.