I’ve sat staring at a small dogwood box with my husband’s name engraved on the top unable to comprehend the fact that it contains all that is left of Jon’s physical form. His thick black hair that he would have me run my fingers through, that soft spot on his neck just behind his jaw that I loved to kiss, the callouses on his fingertips from playing his guitar every weekend, gone. All I am left with is a box.

There was a small irrational part of me that wanted to believe that this all wasn’t really happening. He was out there somewhere getting his heart worked on and would be coming back to me soon. But he’s not. This box stands witness to the stark reality that he is gone and I am alone.

It’s been easier for me to grieve my situation, so that’s where my sadness and stress have focused on these past two weeks. I’ve focused on being sad for Jocelyn, about the fact that I am pregnant, about being alone, until yesterday I couldn’t begin to grieve Jon. It was too painful. It is still too painful but this box has pushed through what layers I had been using to protect myself from being pulled into the depths of my untapped despair. All my attention has now been shifted from myself to him. I’ve tried time and again to put words together to describe the person he was and what an enormous aching loss he is to me, but nothing feels enough, the words feel cheap and inadequate.

The only thing I want in the whole world right now is one more of his wonderfully claustrophobic, full-body hugs. He was the only one who could comfort me and now when I need comfort the most he is gone. He is gone and I am left empty.