Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

We all know the nursery rhyme. We sang it as children, spinning until we were dizzy, eventually collapsing into the grass with breathless laughter. But when you lose your person, the "falling down" isn't a game. It’s a literal collapse of the world as you knew it.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what remains after that fall—and the fact that it usually involves a lot more paperwork than the rhyme suggests.

The Pact

Greg and I never had a formal sit-down to plan out the end; his passing was far too sudden for "final arrangements" or prepared goodbyes. We didn't exactly have a Wednesday night PowerPoint presentation on death. But over the years, as we said goodbye to others, we’d have those brief, quiet exchanges. We both made it clear that cremation was our preferred method. I think we both liked the idea of being portable—less "locked in the ground" and more "ready for a road trip."

Even though we didn’t have a checklist or a signed plan, I find comfort in knowing I’m honoring the preference he expressed when we were just talking about life. But nothing prepares you for the day you actually bring those ashes home. There is a profound, surreal weight to having your person back under your roof in a way you never imagined. He is home, but the house is silent. The physical form is gone, and you are left navigating a space that feels both full of his memory and devastatingly empty of his presence. It turns out, having your husband on a shelf makes for a much quieter roommate than the one who actually lived here.

The Anchor and the Obstacle

Even with the decision for cremation, I knew we needed an anchor. I purchased a plot at the cemetery because legacy needs a landscape. I want our children and grandchildren to have a physical coordinate on a map where they can stand, reflect, and feel connected to him—a destination for Avery and Wyatt to bring their stories, their heartaches, and their "you wouldn't believe what Mom did today" rants.

However, I’ll be honest with you: I’ve found myself paralyzed when it comes to the actual headstone.

I have the land, but the thought of seeing his name permanently etched in stone feels like a weight I’m not yet ready to carry. There is a finality in granite that feels so much heavier than the ashes I keep at home. I’ve also struggled with the idea of my own name being there. While many people find comfort in seeing their place reserved—like a morbid version of "saving a seat" at a concert—I don’t want my name on that stone until I am no longer here to see it. It feels like a strange line to draw, but I’m learning that the only "right" way to grieve is the way that allows you to breathe.

The Invisible Presence

Knowing your person is no longer in their physical form changes your vision. You start looking for them in the intangible. You find them in the way the light hits a room, in a specific line of a song, or in the quiet moments of journaling. The "vessel" is gone, but the essence remains woven into the fabric of our daily lives.

It’s a beautiful thought, though truth be told, I’d still trade the "essence" for one more day with the real man. I’d take the water bottles he used to leave all over his nightstand or that annoying habit of shuffling his feet under the covers until I thought the sheets would catch fire. I’d even take the mountains of bacon grease he seemed to think were a food group. I’d trade the quiet for all of it.

Sharing the Weight

I’m sharing this because I know I’m not the only one navigating these half-finished chapters. I’m curious about your experiences:

• Did you and your loved ones choose cremation or a traditional burial?

  
  

• Have you ever felt "stuck" on a specific step, like a headstone, even when you knew it was the plan?

  
  

• Where do you go when you need to feel close to your person?

Please share your stories in the comments. We all fall down, but it’s the sharing of these heavy truths (and the occasional sarcastic remark) that helps us find the strength to stand back up.

#deathofspouse #widowedandstillrising #thejenjournal #griefjourney