We, my brother and sisters and I, navigated a week of days too filled with tasks to feel much grief—writing an obituary that attempted to summarize in two pages the long life of a great man—preparing a funeral program involving dozens of family members—writing a funeral talk I did not want to write—the mortuary checklists—settling affairs of estate—hundreds of texts and emails and messages to and from those who knew and loved him—the trickles and gushes of people through the house—all the standard tasks, which we were determined to perform in an exceptional manner.  Mom will be lonelier now, without her husband and friend of 65 years.  She will not hear him say as she sidles past his hospital bed, “You’re just the most wonderful wife, Lucille.  I love you.  We’ve been married 62 years.  When you walk by, I’ll give you a hug.”  I will not hear him exclaim “Roger!  Welcome home!” and “What a gorgeous dinner, Rog!  I just love steamed vechtables!”  Walking the grocery store aisles, I passed the zero sugar mint patties, the deluxe mixed nuts, the lidocaine foot lotion, the Brussels sprouts (Mom hates them), and no longer put them in the cart.  And, I felt the wrench of good-byes anew when I handed to the thrift store attendant the bags stuffed full of shoes and socks and shirts and sweats and suit coats and hoodies.  But our grinding struggle is over, and Mom will experience her widow’s aloneness with a new measure of calm.  A neighbor asked Mom how she was feeling, and she declared, “I’m so happy for my husband.  He’s not paralyzed or sick anymore.  He can run and jump and play.  He’s with Sarah, and with his mother, his father, his sister Louise, and all the rest.”