He was a basket case when his wife died, so much so that a great deal of the decision making was yielded to others—others whose thought processes were not exactly what his would have been, had he been capable of thinking.

Now, years later, he was living with the regrets.  When he walked into our office to get an estimate regarding services for himself, he was so distraught the staff actually worried about what steps he might take to relieve his misery.  One of his greatest regrets was the location of her grave.  There had been no available spaces to either side of her but, in order for her to be close to her other family members, he had agreed for her to be buried where he could not rest beside her.  Instead, he would be buried at her head.  He had even considered cremation for himself, although he didn’t like the idea, but if that was what it took to be with her, then that was what he would do.

The director left the room to total his estimate and, while in the office, relayed his story to the rest of us.  It didn’t take but a moment for the question to be asked.  Would he like for us to move her?  Would he like for us to move her so he could be buried beside her?  And then they could share a monument instead of her having her own and him having his.  They could be as close as possible in death, just as they had been as close as possible in life.

So the director walked back into the room and asked the question.  And when she did, he sat silently as a single tear welled up in the corner of his eye then slowly made its way down his cheek.  Yes.  Yes.  That was exactly what he wanted.

And so the paperwork was signed and the monument quote was reconfigured to use her bronze plaque and his veteran’s marker on a single piece of granite.  With a vase.  He had wanted a vase but others had talked him out of it.  Now there would be a vase.  And then he left.

The next day he returned, and the man who walked into our office was a changed person.  He talked more.  He smiled more.  He seemed genuinely happy—and grateful.  His greatest regret was about to be resolved, and his greatest dread—not being beside her when it was his time to join her—was about to be erased.

Now there are those of you who will tell me it doesn’t matter.  The person isn’t there anymore so what difference does it make if you rest beside them until eternity comes calling?  And to you I will say this.  Rationally, logically you are right.  It probably makes absolutely no difference whatsoever . . . until you love someone so much that the thought of being separated from them by Death—and then in death—is almost too much to bear.  This man’s grief was diminished by the thought that he could rest beside his beloved wife when Death claimed his mortal remains.  For him—and so many others—that knowledge makes all the difference in the world.

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