Amy Welborn paid a visit to her husband’s grave, and came back with this stunning memory:

Sitting there, nothing was revealed to me that I did not already know. Not really. I did not feel closer, and in fact I might even have felt a little further away.

Further away than I do at home, for at home, there is a closet.

Most of his clothes I gave away a while ago. I gave it all away except for his sports t-shirts and sweatshirts – his Gator, Jaguar and Bucs gear that I am saving for his sons as they try to answer the question of who their father was. And his dress shirts.

He did his own laundry, and he only washed his dress shirts every 2 or 3 wearings. So there is a tight row of work shirts that still, even after almost six months, bear his scent, the mix of his body, his deodorant and his cologne. They hang there and still, whenever I want, if I am near, even knowing the folly, knowing that I should be thinking finer, more eternal thoughts, I can, nonetheless, pass by the closet, pause, and take in what is left.

For a moment, two stories above ground, in a place I never thought I would be.

As I gather them all in close. My face in his shirts.

Buried.

There’s more, much more, here. Do read it.