When my wife was alive, we always joked that we’d find a way to contact each other if there really was an "other side".
She’d be the wind in the chimes on a still day, or I’d be the hidden note in the desk drawer that reads: "I’m okay. I love you."
She passed away a few weeks ago after a long bout with cancer.
It shattered my heart into pieces, but a small part of me was glad she finally found peace, and that her days of suffering were over.
Yesterday, I finally found the courage to scatter her ashes into the Atlantic Ocean, as I was sure she would have wanted.
My hands shook as I pulled the last handful of my wife’s remains from the beautiful wooden box the funeral home had given me.
I never should have looked inside of that empty box.
Crudely carved inside the bottom of the box, in shaky but deliberate scrawl:
*WHY DID YOU BURN ME*
My blood turned to ice as I helplessly watched every speck of my wife float apart into the forever of that endless cold deep.