On the day before my second marriage, I went to a quiet cemetery in Seattle seeking peace and closure. I planned to say goodbye to my late wife, offer lilies, and step into a new life with grace.
Instead, I met a stranger beside the next headstone, and together we uncovered a thread of shared loss that almost shook the second chance I had waited years to begin. This widower story is about moving on after grief, choosing love over longing, and the gentle work of healing after loss.
Yet in the still places of my heart, a shadow lingered, the memory of Sarah, my first wife, who had passed away four years earlier. I loved her. I would always love her. And I needed to say that goodbye out loud before I could say I do.
I carried white lilies and a small lantern. The air held a fine drizzle. Leaves whispered against the names carved in stone. I knelt, brushed raindrops from the granite, and told Sarah what I had practiced in my mind for days. I thanked her for the years we had shared. I promised to honor what we had by living fully again. I told her about Emily, about the way kindness can be steady like a handrail on a long staircase. When a tear fell, I let it fall. Love, even when it changes shape, deserves honesty.
