I had to dig her grave alone. I was not only by myself, but I was alone. I felt deeply alone, and it was very cold. The ground was frozen for at least six inches, and I had to use our grubbing hoe to break the crust of frozen earth. Beneath that crust, once it was broken, the digging was easier because the earth was moist and soft. But breaking through the ice was difficult and it took a long time and a lot of physical effort.

She didn't die in the dead of Winter. It was before the absolute extreme of the Solstice. I had a sense that she was going to die, perhaps it was a premonition. It was actually a dream. The dream that foretold me of her death was so gruesome that I have a difficult time talking about it to this day. In fact, I don't think I've ever told anyone about that dream. Perhaps I never will. It was one of the most unbearable dreams I've ever had.

You can probably tell that I loved her dearly. Yet, now that she is gone, there is a sense of relief. At least there has been a turning point, a decided and dreaded outcome. As difficult as it has been, it has come to be that which I had hoped with all my heart would not turn this way. Indeed, we all hoped for a dramatically different outcome. As I shoveled the dirt to create the hole for her coffin, I remembered the warm evenings we once knew. I remembered the times with the children, the times when hope and companionship had been taken for granted. I remembered the curl of the edges of her mouth as she made a gentle smile. I felt the warmth of the mornings as we prepared for each day ahead, days which seemed to have no sunset. Seasons had passed without thought of dreariness or disaster. In retrospect, it had once seemed that there was no obstacle we could not have surmounted together.

The most difficult aspect of her death wasn't burying her, nor was it the loss of her presence on this Earth. Perhaps the intimacy we knew only makes the senselessness of her death all the more unbearable. The fact is that she died for no good reason. Although her death was her choice, or could be attributed to her choice alone, it was truly a senseless loss. You see, she died from the most needless causes of denial, neglect, and carelessness. Her death could have been avoided and did not need to have occurred, but she chose her attitudes and actions and apathy and stubbornness with abandon for common sense. She rejected the input and love of those around her. She chose to arrogantly ignore us emotionally, then she left us physically. May her troubled spirit rest in peace, for she left us in turmoil.

In a sense, I was glad when the grave was deep enough to completely consume the coffin. Although the moment was at hand when I would have to say goodbye to her forever, it was cold beyond that which I had ever known, and the setting sun would only make the cold of the night that much deeper. I had made the coffin myself, with my own hands, and as tradition held there were no nails: only wooden pegs to hold it together. The horse stood silently, hitched to the wagon. She was cold, I could tell, but I also could sense that she knew the gravity of the task at hand. Perhaps I wasn't completely alone, perhaps I only felt that way.

Once the grave was prepared, the full six feet deep and cleaned and squared to perfection, I managed to lower the coffin into its emptiness. I paused for a short minute before filling in the earth over her. I paused and listened to the silence. Then, at that moment, a bird came to the tree nearby. I do not know what type of bird it was, but it chirped. I heard its chirping, and I could feel its presence. Why would a bird be chirping in the dead of Winter? Why, above this grave, at this moment, did that bird chirp at us? I wondered if this was perhaps the voice of God. I do not know. I do know that birds were her favorite.

Finally, without pomp, ceremony, or further circumstance I filled in the grave. She could now rest with others who had gone on before her. There were many who had made similar choices to hers, and she now rested with them in the cold Earth. As I made my way back to our cabin, I did not ride in the wagon. I walked next to the horse. For some reason, I needed to walk there, next to that beast. We had both been in the barn when that horse was born. We had both known that horse's beginnings. We had both loved that horse, together. Sometimes love takes such strange twists: unpredictable, evading control at every turn.

That night I had a dream about her. It was nearly as difficult to bear as the dream that had told me of her impending death. I dreamed that I saw into her grave. I dreamed that I saw through the earth that covered her, through the pine boards that I had sawn and shaped with my hands to create her coffin. I dreamed that I saw her through all those barriers: I saw her rotting and decomposing body. I awoke in the middle of the night, and I did not go back to sleep. I knew that I had seen her soul.