Simone planned her funeral while she was strong enough to tease me about my handwriting. She chose the oak coffin, three songs, and a cremation with no jewelry or keepsakes inside. “Nothing useful goes into the fire,” she said. I promised to follow every instruction because decisions were the burden I could remove from her months.
Our son Caleb arrived at the viewing ten minutes before it ended. He had not spoken to Simone for eleven months. Their last argument began when she refused to lend him money for a second business after his first collapsed. Caleb called her controlling. She called him frightened and reckless. Both waited for the other to apologize until illness made time shorter than anger.
He stood beside the coffin after everyone left. I watched from the doorway as he took a blue envelope from his jacket and tucked it beneath Simone's folded hands. When he turned, his face was wet. I asked whether the envelope contained anything that should not be cremated. He said it held only words and that words were his to give her. Then he walked out before I could ask more.
The next morning, I accompanied the coffin to the crematory. The attendant reviewed the authorization and asked whether all personal items had been removed. I said yes, but the answer felt wrong in my mouth. Simone had kept important letters in blue stationery envelopes: our mortgage payoff, Caleb's first school report, the note I wrote when I proposed. She believed blue made serious things easier to find.
As the coffin moved toward the inner doors, I remembered her last conversation with me. She had gripped my wrist and said, “Do not let his final words to me become his final words to you.” At the time, I promised I would keep calling Caleb. Now I understood that the envelope could become another silence we worshiped because opening it felt dangerous. I raised my hand and asked the attendant to stop. Before the fire started, I needed the coffin opened.