1
As he tills the soil, a hole
opens. Blocks of concrete
have fallen in the collapsed tomb.
On the bottom, a skeleton,
and he instantly knows: It is her.
Nothing but bones and spirit,
she must have moved here to stay near,
as if to hold, but not,
yet to sniff the soul of each other
in the forever embrace of their being.
2
I am grateful for her company,
but this broken tomb will not do.
It is a disgrace to her name.
So, not disturbing her rest, I carefully
dig around the tomb, clear the dirt,
replace the concrete slabs that hold,
warm as can be, like blankets in the earth.
She always loved the earth.
3
The dream fades. Thunder roars.
The grief tide rises in his eyes,
and he knows for certain: She is here.
She will always be here.
The bones prove it.
The spirit brought her back
and although he doesn’t deserve it,
she blesses his life.
4
Where the tomb
appeared in the dream,
I dig a hole.
The stones are her bones.
I kneel,
place the framed photo
into the hole…
as if it were her…
I hang my head
and let the tears drop,
seemingly endlessly,
into the earth’s hole.
5
Perhaps there is no finality;
perhaps closure is a lie.
Grief may be a well that never runs dry,
or perhaps it is a blessing,
God’s way of watering the unique plant
you have become.
Drop your roots into that tomb.
Let the water nourish.
For a widower’s grief never ends.
Anthony Signorelli