She stands alone at the edge of the hole in the ground and thinks that it seems too big, like it will swallow her up. She thinks that if she just moves her foot a breath closer to the edge it will swallow her up and she will be glad to go.
Everyone has stepped away now. They watch from a distance as she has her time alone with the dirt and the roses and all of the empty chairs and the box, that fucking awful box.
Slowly she turns back to it, thinks that she should climb on top and go into the ground with it, climb inside maybe. Yes, she should just open it right up and climb inside where she imagines his body is still warm, but she knows that it is not.
Cautiously she puts her hand on the pine now, thinks maybe she really will. Maybe she’ll really open it up and climb in, but not because she wants to see him or feel him or hold him again. She’s already let go of that.
She wants to climb into the box because they will think she is crazy then. They will think she is crazy and take her away somewhere and she won’t have to do this alone.
She won’t have to be alone with bath time and dance recitals and teacher conferences and sleepless nights. She won’t have to be alone with tuitions and weddings and retirement and aching. She won’t have to be alone with shoveling the driveway and filing the taxes and doing the dishes and this whole life. She won’t have to be alone with this whole life.
If she climbs into the box they will think she is crazy and take her way and she won’t have to be the only one living a life that was made for two.