Lately I’ve been thinking about what I’m certain of. I’m certain I love my children. I’m certain they are the love of my life and the reason I wake up each morning.
We all know death and taxes are certain. This year I had to handle our family’s taxes all by myself. It may sound strange, but the only connection I’ve ever had with the yearly taxes was to sign my name on the last page of a huge stack of papers containing numbers that meant absolutely nothing to me. Those numbers had been carefully calculated by T. Added, subtracted, multiplied, divided. Upon completion, T would breathe a sigh of relief, ask me to sign, and then reach for the checkbook. Now it’s my turn to breathe a sigh of relief, sign, and reach for the checkbook.
The other part of the equation of certainty is death. Years ago … 30 to be exact … T and I drove to Rocky Mountain National Park shortly before we were married. The Sunday drive was fabulous. Clear skies, beautiful green valleys, snow capped mountains. During that beautiful day, T announced that when he died, he wanted his ashes scattered at Rocky Mountain National Park. At the time I thought it was a strange thing to talk about — after all, we were only in our early twenties, and almost all of our ancestors lived well into their 80’s and 90’s.
Last weekend … 30 years after that conversation … we scattered T’s ashes in Rocky Mountain National Park. Just as he had asked me to do for him so many years ago. Death is certain. Death happens when we least expect it. Death happens even when we think we’re too young to think about it.
Rest in peace my Dear One. You were, and always will be, the one who completes me. Remember, I love you.
Next in our circle is Stacey, who has experienced her own unexpected storm this month. Hugs my sweet friend.