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I didn't cry when she got sick, or at the funeral, or at the graveyard. I didn't even cry when my mother brushed the hair out of my still dry eyes and held me as the undertakers wheeled away her coffin. Mom never said it, but she hadn't approved of our relationship from the first moment I brought Elise home. It wasn't that she didn't like Elise. What was there not to like in smart sweet Elise? Mom had tried to understand us, I knew that. I guess it doesn't matter anymore. The next morning, I awoke alone. The sun moved shadows across our bedroom while I just stared off the edge of my side of the bed. I was waiting for something, the smell of her coffee I think, but nothing came to snap me out of this fog. Was I supposed to be doing something? Breakfast, I guessed, though I didn't feel hungry; I didn't feel much of anything to be honest. I went into our pantry anyways and saw row upon row of canned sauces, fruits, and preserves she had prepared for the long winter ahead. The shelves were filled with Elise's preserves and her light curled handwriting. I picked up a Mason jar and stared through it without seeing the diamond shapes etched into the glass or feeling the paper label as my fingertips absently traced the word ‘strawberries' over and over. I didn't see the bags of flour and sugar or the boxes of her favorite cereal crowded together on the mint green shelves in the cramped little pantry. I was back in July, sweating as I hauled in another tray of fresh picked strawberries. She would have picked them herself like every other year if she had still had the strength. I smiled and laughed when I thought she was looking and stole glances at the scarf wrapped around her head when I thought she didn't see. I opened my mouth to ask her again why she was doing all of this and wouldn't she rather fly away somewhere to lounge on a beach? I closed my mouth without a word, we'd fought about it enough and her answer was always the same. “I don't want some crazy trip. That's not me. I just want every day I can have with you,” she would say. I knew she just wanted her life- a normal long life- and it was the only thing I couldn't give her. I hefted the jar turning it over and over in my hand, puzzled by the weight and feel of it like some alien artifact. The jar ate away the cold numbness wrapped around me and I couldn't push away the itching burning feeling rising from the pit of my stomach. I clenched my fist around the jar as if it and it alone had taken my wife from me. I couldn't stand the sight of the wretched thing, it brought anger to a boil suddenly spilling over onto my carefully sealed up resignation. I flung the jar with all my might at the pantry wall, red exploding over a bag of chocolate chips, syrup and glass and strawberries falling to the floor. A low guttural animal yell erupted as red as the strawberries and I hardly noticed it was me spewing anguish and rage at the rows of silent glass jars until my throat grew sore. I slid to the floor completely boneless without anger to hold me up, rocking back and forth holding my head with both hands as if it might come loose without a firm grip. My whole being shook, tears making cold splotches on my pajamas as I sobbed there on the floor of our pantry. I felt like my insides had all been scooped out leaving me hollow and empty, blankly staring at a bag of dried beans as if they could anchor me to the world again. The smell of strawberries touched me tugging me gently back, not to the world around me but further back to a moment with her. The bright sweet fruit conjured up that birthday cake she had made filled with our first strawberry harvest, and how we sang and kissed that night joyfully celebrating life. I looked up at all her jars: the tomato sauce recipe we'd spent years perfecting, the peaches from her mother's tree, the BlackBerry jam she hated but still labored over knowing it was my favorite. I saw her there, all her work and planning and love, every moment of our lives together laid aside here giving me a million tiny roads back to my life with her, if only for a moment- a taste. My vision blurred again as tears flowed, gently now, onto my cheeks. I nodded my head imagining her beside me, gazing at me with that secretive smile. I whispered to her, and to myself, “I see what you did, my clever wife. Thank you.”

“Aunt Bridgette has been diagnosed with cancer,” Dad said. Silence. Images of her face flash through minds, and all attention is lost to memories of those already lost to cancer. There have been too many. “Aunt Bridgette died last night,” Dad said. More silence. Slight pricking of tears at the eyes. Memories play in minds, big jewelry and kind hugs, a familiar presence. Gone. Walking up the path. The location is the cemetery in Hamilton, there are people gathered on the side of the road next to their cars, trying not to weep. An “I'm so sorry Christina,” is murmured to Aunt Bridgette's daughter. She smiles weakly, her eyes glassy. We walk, a silent parade of sombre, well dressed people, the bright day dampened by the reason for the gathering. Some of these people have not seen each other in years, and half of the thoughts are wishes that they were not seeing each other for this reason. Walking up the path, wind tossed hair and ran it's fingers through clothing. The priest opens the book, and says a few words. Then, Christina and her kids stepped up to speak. They spoke words of love, of happiness, of thanks, of warmth, of memories. Of love. Of sacrifice. And there was one thing said, by Christina. Christina told us that Aunt Bridgette knew she was going to die. She said, “Let me go,”. However, it wasn't that part that made the group of family get so teary. It was seeing little Ryan talk about Grandma. Talk about how much fun they had, and me looking over to see Nonno standing right there. Standing tall and proud, yet so weak at the same time. This is a man who has had two heart attacks, and survived them both. This is a man who has nine grandchildren, and loves every single one of them. This is a man. A man. A man who is in his mid eighties. A man. A man who will die. He will die. He will die. He will die. He can't die. Tears flood down cheeks, hot and heavy and full of emotion. Head turns into Mom's shoulder, and the weeping begins. Nonno. This man who has done so much for so many people. This man who cares so much for his family, cares so much about his friends, and even cares for strangers. This man who played such a big part in my life, and whom I love so much I cannot express it. Head turns to look at him, the wind blows, and a cloud passes in front of the sun. Hair ruffles, tears dry, nose runs. He will die. I don't want him to die. And then I lose my marbles.