Fading Desert Footprints (Complete)

'Tears come from the heart, and not from the brain.' Leonardo daVinci

I am parked outside the funeral home which could look like a fancy house, or maybe a small church. The two pillars out front look awkward.

She had arrived late yesterday. I walk in, meet the attendant, and introduce myself.

"Ah yes, Mr. Rembrandt, hello, and once again, sorry for you loss." I instantly hate that phrase, although I had uttered those very words to Jack several years ago as Ginger and Kelly bonded. I never liked it because it is insincere, like the convenient words inside a Hallmark card that people pretend they would say.

We shake hands; his is soft and unmasculine; it is like squeezing a sponge. I am worried that I crushed his hand.

"Are you sure you want to do this? Embalming is quite a routine, affordable task. We have the time." I am as impatient as a child waiting to open a present.

I was with wife-Kelly when she died. In her last two weeks, we picked out her bench as I pushed her through High Park in a wheelchair. I insisted we agree on the bench together, like we did with our wedding rings, knowing I would eventually be there too. It was easy, but I pretended to be selective on the location, to make it seem like a mutual choice when in fact, I didn't care. If I truly knew her, she didn't care either.

One of my biggest fears, as with most people, is death. I also believe that our most precious commodity is time, and sharing it is the greatest gift, and so, that day, we weren't really making choices, we were exchanging gifts.

During her final week, we watched our favorite shows, argued about politics, and indulged in foods like pizza, wings, and Black Forest Cake. We also tried one forkful of sauerkraut, to confirm it was our least favourite.

On her last two days I never left her side, and we reminisced about the past, and the future we were robbed of, like a trip to Petra, or a trek up Kilimanjaro. We argued about the best way to haunt; she whispered something about meddling with my alarm to make me late for work. I kindly suggested the traditional 'lost sock in the laundry' trick, and if she really needed to be mischievous, an occasional internet reset nuisance. She never responded.

There was no embalming, no memorial, and no service. We discreetly sprinkled her ashes throughout High Park, and put a plaque on a bench.

Kelly's cremation will not proceed until I see her. Strangely, I didn't want the embalming either; I wanted everything to be as it naturally was. His words, however, scared me.

"I am absolutely certain," I reiterate, "I've done this before," which was only partially true, considering the circumstances.

"Of course, Mr. Rembrandt, but I still need to warn you that an unprepared viewing can be quite... traumatic," he adds as he leads me to the back where a plain, brown, lonely wooden casket sits on a gurney. My heart starts to pound, and pulses in my throat like a frog. My hands feel cold and clammy like the slimy rocks at the bottom of a lake. Sweat beads on my forehead.

He hesitantly lifts the lid, as if opening Pandora's Box, then steps back. I slowly walk forward.

Something dark and crumpled is lying in the box, like some misaligned logs on a doused campfire. It does not look like Kelly. Most of her hair had burned, leaving a few tufts. Her lips had been seared away revealing her teeth, so that it looks as if she is grinning. It is eerie, but I feel love.

I had made a bad assumption, she was not blown apart in an explosion, she was intact, but burned beyond recognition. It made little difference to me.

I lean over her corpse looking for something I could recognize, to be finally, absolutely certain that it was her. My heart still thumps in my throat as if it was going to break through. Sweat drips off my nose, and my shirt sticks to me in random places. I look down the corpse, to her feet, the left one not as burned as the right, showing the intact tattoo of a ladybug and another flood of memories come back. My heart sinks into my tightening stomach.