PREPARING FOR SPRING
A Widow Bit – Nov. 7, 2010
By Mary Koch

            Halloween, a shortened name from the original All Hallow E'en – meaning the evening before All Saints’ Day – would have been the perfect day for my self-assigned task. Instead, a friend invited me to take a long walk in the autumn-colored countryside, and I could not say no.

            All Saints’ Day would be more appropriate anyway, I told myself. But it rained Nov. 1. I hoped it would clear up by Nov. 2, All Souls’ Day – when all the faithful departed are commemorated. Sure enough, the sun returned to highlight the fall brilliance that folks agree has been extraordinarily beautiful this year.

            I packed a spade, trawl, pitch fork, bag of compost, water, the dog, and – most important – a couple dozen spring bulbs into my car and drove to the cemetery. I’d noticed some time ago that the stretch of fence along the grave next to ours (John’s and someday mine, too) has been carefully tended with annual plants and flowers. I could do that, I decided.

            We’re in the last row of graves before the cemetery lawn ends at a wire fence. The fence is pretty well smothered by weeds growing in the adjacent, untilled field. The dried weeds were simpler to clear than I’d anticipated. I dug into the surprisingly rich soil and planted yellow daffodils and red tulips. I don’t have great expectations; some critter may dig them all up. But it’s worth a try.

            Warmed by the sun, I worked in shirtsleeves, thinking not about grief and loss but about my own death. It didn’t require much thought, because I have no idea what it will be like. I know just one thing for sure: I want to arrive at death with my list of regrets as short as possible. Right away, that gets you thinking about life and how you’re living it.

            A lot of people don’t like to use the word death. They prefer terms that more closely mirror their beliefs, terms such as “passing on,” “crossing over,” “going to Jesus” …

            I use the word death to minimize confusion. Years ago, I was playing the organ for a church service when I noticed one of the members was absent. I was disappointed because I’d specifically chosen the final hymn at her request. During the “Passing of the Peace,” I whispered to her husband, “Where’s J---?” He looked at me with tears in his eyes and answered, “She’s left us.” I was shocked and grief-stricken. I don’t know how I managed to get through the rest of the service nor avoid blubbering while playing “her” hymn.

            If he’d said, “She left me,” I would not have made the wrong assumption. The fact was, J--- had abruptly moved to northern Idaho, leaving her husband and grown daughter behind.

            With my bulb-planting task complete and the day still glorious, I put the top down on my car. There’s something about driving away from a cemetery in an open-air convertible that is almost impudent and most certainly life-affirming.