I’m penning this column on what would have been my 36th wedding anniversary.

Thanks be to God, the weather was not like today’s:  Cold, gray, driving mist, and rain — the kind of day that makes you want to dive under the covers with a cheesecake, and remain there until spring.

Throw in a strong coffee or a little cognac for good measure, and I think you might be looking at ideal hibernation (well, to MY mind, anyway).

Our day was gray and a bit brisk, but at least it was dry.

This was a boon for a November wedding in the Midwest, and a source of tremendous relief to my mother, who had spent many hours in the weeks approaching it muttering, “Why NOVEMBER???!!!”

In fairness to her, she had been through this angst before with my sister’s November wedding seven years prior.

Years later, two of my nieces would also tie the knot in the month of Turkey Day.

Clearly, the Holy Souls were smiling on all of us, because none of those nuptials necessitated breaking out the snowmobiles in order to attend.

So, what was the attraction to the penultimate month of the year?

Uniting with the Holy Souls

Truth be told, as I recollect, I don’t actually know. For the most part, I think it was largely logistics, or as my niece succinctly put it: “You gotta go when the church and the venue are open!”

For Joe and me, however, it did hold a bit more meaning than just logistics, though if my feet were held to the fire, I couldn’t actually say it was a planning factor.

My father-in-law was very ill when we announced our plans for marriage in the spring of ’89, and the news gave him much joy.

He passed away in July without ever seeing it come to fruition; it seemed especially fitting for us to tie the knot in the month of the Holy Souls in his memory.

The Holy Souls . . . it’s a little hard for me to think of my late husband as one of the Holy Souls, but I guess he is.

Grief is a funny thing (as in odd, not humorous). There’s no statute of limitations on it, and it will kidney punch you years down the road, and in places and ways that you least expect.

It’s completely individual: Some people find looking at pictures of their recently departed as comforting; for me, it was devastating.

I could not even glance at a picture of my husband on the fridge for at least six months after he had died.

I think it’s normal to spend a lot of the early time thinking back on your life with the person . . . remembering special things and certain moments.

There’s a desire to keep that old life close to your heart as you strive to put one foot in front of the other in your rocky and desperate attempt to figure out who you are now — without them.

It’s not especially pretty, but as time marches on, healing does take place, and memories begin to give comfort instead of pain.

Eventually, you can find yourself pondering the future versus the past with the person . . . thinking about where they are now, and when you will see them again . . . what that will be like.

In essence, you can begin to look forward.

I’m not trying to suggest that you are looking for an end to this life — to fulfill that goading side of the tombstone next to his that’s already etched with your name, just waiting for you to finish the job and fill in the blank.

I’m just suggesting that you can start to think about a life beyond this one . . . the life for which we are all meant to strive . . . one of a joy and a peace and a perfect love that will never end.

Do you ever stop and wonder about that? I can’t say that I do it all the time, but as I get older, I do wonder about it more.

Pondering forward

And tonight, as I raise a glass in a toast to my husband, I wonder where he is and how he is doing.

Is he still in Purgatory? Is he free? Is he with Kelley and Sue and our parents and countless family and friends?

Are they celebrating our anniversary up there tonight? Is there carrot cake? It was his favorite. Does this shindig involve a good card game of Solo? Cards were not his thing, but if my parents are in attendance, cards will be in the equation.

Does he know that the Lehigh-Lafayette game is this weekend, and that both teams are undefeated?? Gadzooks! What a glorious gridiron bloodbath that will be.

Too bad it’s on the road, and not in Saucon Valley — home of many happy tail gates past.

After Joe died, I eventually worked my heart back to singing at Sunday Mass, and stopping at the cemetery afterward without fail; those visits were melancholy with a capital “M”.

But by the grace of God, one fall I found myself doing my daily walks there during the golden hour.

It’s an open, airy place, and the October blue sky above the rolling hills seemed within the grasp of my fingertips . . . as if I could reach up and touch Heaven.

My soul swelled with warmth and peace.

A very dear friend has a daughter buried in this same place, lost to their family at 17 by an aggressive cancer.

I found myself echoing this courageous woman’s sentiment: “I LOVE the cemetery because I am surrounded by all of those Holy Souls! Were it not that my husband and sons might commit me, I think I’d be inclined to sleep there once in a while.”

All of those Holy Souls . . . paving the way for us to our true and eternal home.

In Memoriam:

Joseph Peter Burns, III

July 22, 1952 — August 27, 2019

Married November 18, 1989