The Last Day

The Last Day

Some years, the pain feels sharper, more vivid than even the day it happened, today is one of those years.

It was October 28th, 2016, the day after my husband's funeral. He was set to be cremated, and though I knew he was no longer "there" in the way he was in life, I couldn’t bear the idea of him facing that moment alone. As his wife, I felt bound to honor him, even in death. Despite knowing others might not understand, I felt it was a last act of love, part of my vow to him: “until death do us part.”

The night before, my daughter came into my room, something she rarely did, and climbed into bed with me, wrapping her arms around me as she asked me not to go. She isn’t usually one to show physical affection, so I knew this moment held deep meaning for her. She was worried, fearing this choice would change me in ways I couldn’t yet understand. I promised her it wouldn’t—that I would stay the same—but she was right. In ways I couldn’t have imagined, I would never be the same.

My niece, brave and compassionate, offered to go with me and drive me. Her presence would come to mean more to me than words can express, a small beacon of love and strength as I faced the unimaginable.

When we arrived, we were led to a small office with a window that overlooked the cremation chamber. I knew this was it the final goodbye. They rolled him up to the window, and I was asked if I wanted to take the roses off him, the ones I’d given everyone at the funeral to place on him. I left them as they were, not wanting to disturb anything, to let every piece of him remain intact for this last journey. There was a chain with his saint that I’d placed in his hands after the service, and I decided to keep it. When I held it in my hand, I felt its coolness, I clutched it so hard in my hands, grounding me reminding me of him.

Then, the man in charge turned to me and asked if I wanted to start the machine. His question hung heavy in the air. After a long pause, I answered yes. I watched him position my husband and then noticed something unusual: he was resting on what looked like a thin cardboard box. The man must have seen my surprise, as he explained, “It helps with the smell.” Small details, though practical, somehow felt surreal.

As he prepared to begin, he removed a small tag from my husband’s foot and handed it to me, explaining it would match the tag left in the ashes, ensuring I could identify him later. This was a token I would carry with me, one that felt like a bridge to him.

The man nodded, and in that moment, I looked at my husband one last time. I felt both sorrow and love, deep and entwined. I whispered to him, “What God put together, let no man tear apart. Until death do us part. I’m sorry if this isn’t right—please forgive me if it’s not. Te amo.”

Then, I pressed the button, and raised a lever then a sound that seemed to echo into eternity. The machine roared to life, and I watched as he began to roll forward, I was frozen in place, watching time itself stop as he disappeared. A part of my soul went with him, something I felt tearing deep from my core. Even now, as I am telling you of this experience I can feel it, I can still smell the acrid scent that filled the room, a details burned into my memory.

Afterward, my niece and I sat in silence, both of us too overcome to speak. She didn’t fill the quiet with words, and I was grateful for the space she held for me. The man explained it would take hours before my husband’s ashes would be ready to collect, then reminded me to hold onto the tag. I clutched it tightly, almost like an anchor in a suddenly unfamiliar world.

As we left, I turned back, I looked up to see black smoke rising from the building. The sight pulled at something deep within me, as if it marked a final severing of the life we’d shared. A strange sensation washed over me—a mixture of sorrow, love, and something indescribable. I turned back, almost instinctively, and in the quiet space between steps, I swear I heard him say my name. His voice, distinct and familiar, cut through the heavy air around me. I froze, feeling the hairs on my neck rise, but I didn’t dare tell anyone. It felt too fragile, too precious, almost as if saying it aloud would diminish it. I kept it buried deep within, too afraid to share it until now. That moment lingers with me still. It was as if, in some way, he was there with me, acknowledging what I had done was okay.

I remember riding back, my niece beside me, silently holding space as I processed the profound weight of what had just happened. The drive back was silent. My niece drove, her hand a quiet strength next to me as I leaned my head against the window, holding the tag and feeling the coin between my fingers. The world felt fundamentally altered, its colors dimmed, its sounds muted. And my daughter was right—I would never be the same.

Thank you for allowing me to share

TonyaLe Carter de Flores

©2024TonyaLe