This Morning I said, “Good Morning,” to My Husband’s Ashes

And I’m not sure there are words for what that sentence feels like.

Because there was a time when saying “Good morning, honey” was just part of my day.

It was ordinary.

It was something I said without thinking.

Maybe I was making coffee. Maybe he was already awake. Maybe we were both half asleep and trying to figure out what the day was going to bring.

It was just life.

And now I say good morning to a container sitting in my home.

His ashes.

And the hurt of that is something I don’t think you can really explain to someone who hasn’t lived it.

The Absurdity of Grief

There are moments when grief feels almost surreal.

I’ll see his ashes and my brain knows exactly what they are.

But my heart?

My heart still expects him to walk through the door.

Still expects to hear his voice.

Still expects there to be another ordinary morning.

That’s the part nobody really prepares you for.

You don’t just miss the big things.

You miss the stupid little things.

The everyday things you never thought you’d miss because they were just…there.

The conversations.

The routines.

The inside jokes.

The “what do you want for dinner?”

The person sitting beside you.

The person you could turn to and say, “You’ll never believe what happened today.”

And now there’s no one to tell.

Saying Good Morning Doesn’t Feel Crazy to Me

Maybe someone would think it’s strange that I talk to his ashes.

I don’t.

Because grief doesn’t erase a relationship.

It changes it.

There is something incredibly painful about knowing that the person you spent so much of your life with is no longer physically here, while your love for them didn’t magically disappear when they died.

That love has to go somewhere.

So sometimes mine comes out as:

“Good morning.”

And sometimes it comes out as tears.

Sometimes it’s a memory.

Sometimes it’s a laugh because I remember something ridiculous he did.

Sometimes it’s anger.

Sometimes it’s complete disbelief.

And sometimes it’s just sitting there staring at the ashes and thinking:

How the hell are you really gone?

The Disappointment Is Almost as Heavy as the Grief

I think that’s one of the hardest parts.

The disappointment.

Not disappointment in him.

Disappointment in this whole damn situation.

Disappointment that this is how our story changed.

Disappointment that there won’t be more ordinary mornings.

More birthdays.

More holidays.

More conversations.

More annoying little habits that I would give anything to have back.

You spend a lifetime assuming there will be more.

More time.

More years.

More memories.

And then suddenly there isn’t.

That’s a hard reality to swallow.

And some days I don’t swallow it very well.

I Miss the Life We Were Supposed to Have

That’s another part of grief that doesn’t get talked about enough.

I’m not only grieving the life we had.

I’m grieving the life I thought we were going to have.

The future we assumed was waiting for us.

The things we were going to do.

The places we were going to go.

The ordinary Tuesday mornings we were supposed to have.

Growing older together.

Getting on each other’s nerves.

Laughing about the same stupid things we’ve laughed about for years.

Growing old.

Together.

That’s what hurts.

Because when someone dies, you don’t just lose yesterday.

You lose all the tomorrows you thought were guaranteed.

And Yet…I Still Say Good Morning

So yes.

This morning I said good morning to my husband’s ashes.

Maybe I’ll do it again tomorrow.

Maybe some mornings I won’t.

Maybe some days I’ll talk to him.

Maybe some days I’ll be angry.

Maybe some days I’ll laugh.

Maybe some days I’ll look at those ashes and feel absolutely nothing because grief has exhausted every last emotion I have.

I don’t think there’s a right way to do this.

I’m learning that grief isn’t a straight line.

It’s more like walking through your life and stepping on emotional land mines you didn’t know were there.

A song.

A smell.

A photograph.

A place.

A cup of coffee.

A random Tuesday morning.

And suddenly you’re right back in it.

Today, it was his ashes.

And the simple words:

Good morning.

Two little words that used to mean nothing more than the beginning of another day.

Now they carry an entire lifetime.

I wish I could hear him say it back.

That’s the part that hurts the most.

So I’ll keep saying it.

Not because I don’t understand that he’s gone.

But because I loved him when he was here, and I still love him now.

And maybe that’s what grief really is.

Learning how to carry a love that has nowhere physical to go.

So…

Good morning, honey.

I miss you.

I wish you were here.

And today, that’s all I have.

And somehow, it has to be enough.