A crescent moon smile played on my lips as they lowered him into the ground; his burial, my resurrection; his death, my coming to life. I dabbed at my eyes; my tears dripped calcified, hard as million-year-old formations in a dark cave. It certainly felt like a million years—my prior life with the man, the one called husband.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, sweetie.” Her hand, a shock of mountain spring coolness, lapped against my cheek. “Your tears break my heart. I know you’re sad, but in time it will get better.” I bit my lower lip, a tiny trickle of blood and saliva pooling in my mouth. Oh, how I wanted to say, “Sad? I’m not crying because I’m sad. These are tears of joy.”

My lips and eyes scrunched, a coil of wire disguise concealing my glee. I remained stone silent, a tombstone yet to be carved, “Beloved Husband,” bile rising in my throat picturing those two words etched in stone for eternity. Colored memories, prisms of stained glass in a cathedral, burst into view—a tombstone on a tombstone. Years prior, my best friend chuckled as we raised two plastic cups of cheap red wine in celebration of her mother’s death, a woman who sold her daughter for a dime and a promise.

“Ding Dong, the wicked witch is dead,” she’d toasted, a clump of pepperoni and mozzarella dangling off her chin. My brain hummed at the thought of returning to that same oak tree lined cemetery under the cover of darkness, clutching another crappy bottle of Rosé and a half-frozen Tombstone Pizza, its shards of ice mirroring the broken memories, splattered with at least one hundred garlic cloves. “I’ll be back,” I hissed as they shoveled a final layer of dirt over his pine bunker.

Someone passed by, giving my hand a sweaty grip of condolence. This warm sticky pressing unleashed a memory of his perspiring hands, an anvil crushing my neck, his fist cracking against my jaw. It was as fresh as the day it happened. The blow sent a tooth flying, a tiny projectile of bone and blood clanking against my pasta bowl, as he sneered, “Let this be a reminder that I don’t like garlic.”

I faked a few sobs as people offered their condolences, stifling my glee over the thought of spraying his grave with a gush of my garlicky saliva, me finally spitting his bones out; their hard clank echoing against the frigid ground.

I lingered as the last mourners departed, the sun shining brilliant hues of orange and yellow. Hope was no longer a vague concept, something distant and ephemeral. It was here to stay. I walked toward it, feet crunching in the gravel, my future now a home where garlic was a flavor, not a weapon. I inhaled deeply, tasting the sharp, sweet air of defiance.