A pain only my kindred widows and widowers can comprehend.
At twenty-seven years old, my husband was murdered.
At twenty-eight, I finally put his body into the ground.
A year after that pivotal moment.
The velvet bag that has surrounded the container for the last year is now deflated.
So am I.
My body is heavy.
My soul feels miles away. Maybe standing over his grave?
My mind cannot stop.
It is done.
It is over.
Now I must continue forward.
Maybe inches at a time.
Maybe just a few breathes at a time.
I will still cry.
I will still be sad.
I will always remember.
Roger and I did not write many "real" notes or letters to each other.
But today, I wrote one for my husband as his ashes were laid next to his father.
I read them to those who attended the burial service today.
"Roger was my best friend.
He loved me before I loved him.
He was silly and fun.
He was a little dorky and a warrior.
And he was mine.
He was "COOLness".
He was charming, handsome, and devonaire.
He was hilarious, just ask Grace, his sister.
He was my encourager and my rock.
Always pushing me to be a better person, be more kind, and be more patient.
He was my hero.
He promised to take care of me.
And he has kept his promise.
Through family and friends, I am always taken care of in all ways.
He promised to never leave me.
And a year ago, as I pleaded with the world for him not to go, he physically left me.
But he left many friends and a huge Cuban family to be with me.
And in my loneliest hours, I still hear his voice, see his face, and remember our story.
Making me laugh.
Making me cry.
And making me a better me.
Roger was a great gift giver and some of his best gifts were a sister, a mother, family, friends, and his love.
I recently reread a book Roger gave to me and my favorite line was 'Time is nothing.'
For me and Roger, time is nothing.
I love him and he loves me forever.
And to my big Cuban family, time is nothing, death is nothing.
You are mine and I am yours."