We didn’t meet under the best of circumstances—I was the funeral director and he was the husband grieving the imminent death of his wife. He had come to talk about how he would care for her when the time came, and I was there attempting to assist him in his quest. He had questions for which I supplied answers, but he also needed to talk . . . and talk he did. All about their life together, about their adventures as they moved with his work, from Japan to China to Indonesia and all about the United States. When they finally settled down, she began taking night classes while working as a seamstress in a shirt factory . . . which led to employment with Sears Roebuck . . . which led to her role in making drapes for Graceland and Jerry Lee Lewis.
He must have talked for almost an hour, his eyes shining as he shared stories of their 67 years together, of the beautiful home she created for them and her many accomplishments. According to her husband, she was “a fine woman”, one who willingly followed him literally around the world and finally to a spot in the road between Adamsville and Selmer, a place closer to home and family. He wanted to build the house of her dreams, but Life and Death had other ideas. And now here he sat, asking questions for which I was fairly certain he would not remember the answers.
She had been diagnosed with cancer and, in an ironic twist of Fate, his diagnosis followed shortly thereafter. Their dream home sat, half-finished, while he attempted to care for her in her final days. He wanted to return later, bringing another family member with him so we could review the information I had provided. A time was agreed upon and on that day, as he walked into the office for our appointment, his cell phone rang. It was the hospice nurse. His wife had just died.
We gave him time to get home, time to be with her before we arrived. When he came for his arrangement conference the next day he looked defeated, his lanky frame bowing under the weight of the loss he had suffered. He slowly walked into the room, pulled a chair from under the table, and settled into it with a heavy sigh. Then looking at me, in a voice laden with despair, he whispered some of the saddest words I believe I’ve ever heard.
“I’m only half here.”
Whenever I drive west on Highway 64, I pass within a few yards of a house that never completely became a home. Someone else owns the property now; I wonder if they plan to finish it . . . and will it even vaguely resemble the vision shared by two people who truly, deeply loved each other. In a little over a year, he had joined her. They are together once more, never again to be parted. And I’m sure his eyes are shining as he tells everyone who’ll listen what “a fine woman” she is and shares the story of their love.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926 and has worked with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
