At my age, 74, I was beside my brothers at the rally and could not hold back my emotions. Tears welled in my eyes as I explained I would not be able to bury my wife. When my wife of 46 years, Margaret, passed away suddenly, I felt her absence entirely, but the shock of her unpaid bills in her desk drawer was almost unbearable.
Expenses for electricity, insurance and co-pays for medical visits. She kept her illness hidden from me so I wouldn’t have to deal with the stress. She was the Margaret I came to know that day. It’s firmer than steel and sweeter than a lullaby.
Weathered and old, our group of Iron Disciples was silent as we came together. They were the ones I stood by during storms, made memories around fires and whose battles and lives could fill shelves with tales. We didn’t have a lot of extra cash.
We were proud to call ourselves veterans, hardworking employees and retired people who barely got by on meager pensions. Even so, when I mentioned I didn’t know how to leave her behind, Buck, our president, knew what to say. After putting a hand on my shoulder, he said confidently, “We’ll find a way.”
The days of Friday, Saturday and Sunday disappeared almost without notice. I only had a little to eat. Didn’t sleep. Our anniversary was approaching and there was an overwhelming silence in our house. I thought my emotions would stay as raw as a wound that won’t stop bleeding. And that day, the unexpected sound of a knock at the door brought me out of bed.
There he was, wearing his neatest riding vest, with tear-filled eyes. A line of motorcycles rumbled up behind him. Many of them. Cyclists I hadn’t seen for years, some who were unfamiliar faces. Guests often drove in from towns and states outside the city. The news was out.
They climbed slowly toward Overlook Ridge which was Margaret’s favorite spot. In the fall, we’d drive up to that spot to see the leaves burst into color. I finally saw what was at the top: a handcrafted wooden casket.
A few of the boys used their evenings to sand and stain the piece in an old shed. Neighbors unknown before brought flowers and arranged them around their friend’s grave. At the spot where our son was laid to rest stood a tiny piece of land. A burial place generously provided by someone else.
I threw myself to the floor.
“What caused this to happen?” I couldn’t even speak, the miracle was all I could muster.
Buck pointed to the view and simply said, “Community.” Margaret was responsible for the construction of the building.”
His idea was true, as it turned out. She loved others deeply through her kind acts, cooking, gentle tips and open ears. She made blankets for infants she could not meet. Delivered cookies to the doors of others. I walked with people in hospitals who had no one to support them. The love she shared with my children was eventually returned when she was in need of it. Put simply, when I first decided to do it.
For whatever reason, I couldn’t honor her with a proper burial. Even after she passed away, she made sure I didn’t have to deal with it on my own.
