The Husband I Buried

Then. When I buried my husband, I never thought I'd see him again. I said my goodbyes at the funeral like everyone else, pretending my grief was as final as laying Luis to rest. The scent of lilies, cloying and sweet, drifted through the parlour.

When it was my turn to speak, I told the story about how we'd first met. How it felt instantly so right that it seemed somehow inevitable.

Saying goodbye felt like a lie. Because even as I spoke about letting him go, something deep inside me whispered that I would never - could never - truly let my husband go.

Now. Standing on the train platform I think I must be losing my mind. They say grief does strange things to a person, but this can't be happening.

It can't be him. I look again and there he his, running his hands through his dark hair, his eyes glinting in the winter sun. It's the husband I buried. The love of my life died in a car crash. But now here he is. Am I going crazy, or was my whole marriage a lie?