As the 25th of August was nearing, I had ample time to reflect on the second anniversary of my wife, Jan’s, passing. For several days, I thought of little else. On the 25th, I went to our local supermarket and bought a bouquet of pink roses—her favorite—and drove to our church, where her cremains are inurned in a beautiful columbarium only a few feet from the front entrance to the church. I placed the roses against the red granite wall where her niche is located, and I remained for a while, wistfully longing for her. It’s a ritual I can play out frequently as I still attend that church. I make it a point to arrive a few minutes early, let myself into the columbarium through its ornate iron gate, and visit her for a while before going to the worship service. As I leave the church, I revisit her niche and say goodbye to her before getting into my car to make the 18-mile drive home or wherever I am going that day.
Visiting her on the second anniversary of her death was even more sobering to me than my visit on the first anniversary of her death. On that day, my feelings were still very raw; I was still in a lot of pain.
I’ve read what many of you have said regarding the second year following your wife’s death and how it is tougher than the first. For me, that was not the case. The pain is steadily subsiding. I am no longer raw with emotion. Instead, I just long for her. I remind myself how blessed I was to have her as the central figure in my life for 52 years. Those years have just flown by! In that second year, I embarked on several major changes in my life, many of which I have documented here. Some of which are still evolving. I have accepted my loss. She will not be coming back. The next time I see her will be when my life is over, and I pass through the veil into eternal life. I dream of her meeting me when I do, and we begin spending eternity together in true bliss.
The 25th of August came and went, and I resumed my tasks.
On the 18th of September, I was looking at my phone when I noticed the date. And then it hit me. On the 18th of September, 2021, we held a beautiful memorial service for her at our church and placed her urn into that niche in the columbarium. Suddenly, I was overcome with emotion as I relived that day in my mind. In a way, I was hijacked, as I had not remembered that her burial day was arriving; I had been laser-focused on the second anniversary of her death.
I remained melancholy for a few days, and then it subsided. I’m now entering my third year. Much is happening in my life that is a source of gladness. But it is readily apparent to me that for the remainder of my life (I’m 73), I will mark the years as I have been doing and routinely visiting her niche. That niche holds two box-shaped urns. Engraved on a red granite plate that covers the niche is “Janice Elaine Burroughs 1950 – 2021.” When I leave this world, the niche will be opened on the day of my funeral, and my two sons will walk out of the church and place my urn with hers. My name and pertinent dates will be engraved onto that granite plate, and we will remain there together for who knows how long. But more importantly, our spirits will live together in what I know will be a glorious afterlife.
Michael Burroughs is the author of Moving Mountains: Facing Strokes with Faith and Hope. He lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
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