Emma

Emma died several weeks ago of COPD. Not a good way to go. But she had Sven and her new little cat with her. I haven't asked Sven for details; it's just been too painful for him. He called me two days after her death. I imagine during that time, he was busy with the hospice, the crematorium people, and dealing with his own grief.

He has said that there will be no memorial service as they had so few friends out in the little town they lived near. I'm getting some of Emma's cremated remains. I've seen ads on Facebook for services that use ashes to make glass objects. I'm planning on having a pendant and a paperweight made out of the ashes I receive.

My method of grieving has been odd. I don't weep for her. Instead, I'll have these instant thoughts where I think, I really need to talk to Emma. And then feel a hollowness in my stomach when I realize no such thing as possible.

I was able to visit her one more time before she died and was planning a trip back to visit her days before she died. I'm sad and disappointed I didn't, but maybe it's for the best. By then, Emma had stopped taking morphine because it wasn't doing anything for her anymore.

I am concerned about Sven, who has fewer friends there than I thought. I would not be surprised if he sold the farm and moved back to Chicago. That might take him a couple of years. Their house is messy inside and generally in disrepair outside.

Emma's therapist has called me several times, for which I am grateful. Emma asked me to call her several times as she got closer to dying. I gladly did and felt like I had an instant friend.

I'll miss Emma the rest of my life. Hers was far too short. She said when I last visited her that she was surprised I didn't die first. I said I was surprised, too, but there we were.

With this, I feel like I'm beginning my third act of my life.