Taken from real life. “I visit the cemetery every day to talk to my husband”: Is this the only way to be close anymore

The first time I went to the cemetery was the day after the funeral.

The death of my husband, Jan, was like the end of the world for me. We had been together for over forty years. We shared everything – joys, sorrows, everyday little things that made up our lives. And now suddenly he is gone. The silence in the house became unbearable. The empty armchair in the living room seemed to scream of his absence. The absence of his voice, laughter, touch – all of it was like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

The first time I went to the cemetery was the day after the funeral. It was cool, the wind gently rustling the leaves on the trees. I stood in front of his grave, looking at the fresh flowers and the still wet earth. Tears ran down my cheeks, and I whispered:

– Janie, how am I supposed to live without you now? ?

I didn't expect an answer. But this place, although painful, gave me the feeling that I was close to him. That somewhere there, in a way I didn't understand, he could hear me.

From that day on, the cemetery became my daily stop. Every morning, after my morning coffee, I would take a bouquet of flowers and go to his grave. I would sit on the bench next to him and tell him everything.

– Janie, you know what our grandson said today? – I said, smiling through my tears. – He said he wanted to be like Grandpa. Strong and good.

Sometimes I shared my worries.

– The kids are trying to convince me to sell the house. They say it's too big, too empty. And I? How could I leave our shared place?

It might seem strange to others, but to me those conversations were like a bridge to a world that was gone. The people in the cemetery looked at me with a mixture of sympathy and incomprehension. Some said:

– Mrs. Elizabeth, maybe it's time to make up. Life goes on.

But how could I go on living when John was my life?

One day, during one of my visits, an older man approached me. He looked calm, but I saw a pain in his eyes that I knew all too well.

– You come here often,– he said quietly.

– Every day,– I replied, not taking my eyes off John's grave. – It's the only way to feel close to him.

– I understand,– he said after a moment. – My wife passed away two years ago. I also come here to talk to her.

Over the next few weeks, we began to swap stories. He told me about his wife, about their life together. I talked about Jan, about how much I missed him. These conversations were like therapy – they reminded me that I was not alone in my pain.

Despite this, every evening, returning from the cemetery to an empty house, I felt the weight of loneliness. I often asked myself:

– Is this the only way to be close? Is all I have left now to do is talk to a marble tombstone?

One day, during one of my visits, I noticed a young couple in the cemetery. The girl was crying and the guy was hugging her. I approached them hesitantly and asked if I could help in any way. The girl replied:

– That's my mother's grave. I'd like to believe she still hears me.

I took her hand and said:

– She hears you. Love doesn't disappear. It just changes its place.

That day I understood that a cemetery is not a place of ending. It's a place that allows you to remember, love, and feel closeness – even if that closeness is no longer what we knew.

I still visit Jan every day. I still talk to him. But I am slowly learning that the love I carry in my heart doesn't have to be confined to this place. It can live on in my memories, in my gestures, in the words I say to my grandchildren when I remember their grandfather. And even though he is not physically with me, I feel that he is always present in my heart. Because love, though invisible, never truly disappears.

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