All things considered, I’m doing okay. I get that that sounds like something someone says when they’re not doing okay. I also get that “all things considered” is putting in some real work there because I’m still wearing the black dress I wore to my husband’s funeral this morning. But seriously. For real. I’m doing okay.
It started to snow right at the end of the ceremony. It’s been weirdly warm in Baltimore since Christmas, so the flakes melted the second they hit the ground, putting a reflective sheen on everything, including the coffin.
I couldn’t help thinking that my husband would’ve been psyched about the way the wood grain glistened in the late-morning light. Tim chose a coffin with a chocolatey-brown finish because it perfectly matched the desk in his office at school, and because—his words here—“It just looks classy, Gracey.”
He said this a month ago. We were having one of his “When I’m Gone” strategy sessions in the TV room. “It’s morbid, I know,” he said, showing me the image on his iPad. “But a coffin’s gotta look like something, right? Mine might as well look classy.”
My husband. My former husband? My dead husband?
Here’s something I’ve noticed: There’s no good way to describe...