I was 74 when I appeared in front of my friends and started crying. As I spoke the words, my voice shook and I knew I could never expect to hear myself say: “I can’t afford to bury my wife.” I was still struggling with my wife’s death when I opened her desk drawer and was surprised by all the bills I’d never known about. Electric bills, insurance and medical co-payments. She had everything figured out and kept it from me because she didn’t want me to feel concerned. That was Margaret’s voice on the phone. It’s firmer than steel and sweeter than a lullaby.
The weathered old bikers in our group, known as the Iron Disciples, stayed quiet throughout the meeting. My friends rode beside me in any weather, built campfires, traveled on roads most people avoid and had a lifetime of stories and experiences to share. None of us had a great deal of wealth. Some of us had lives in war, worked for a living and a few were getting by on meager pension funds. All the same, when I let them know I wasn’t sure how to say goodbye to her, Buck took the lead without pause. He used the hand on my shoulder to assure me, proclaiming, “We’ll get through this.”
I passed the next few days without realizing it. I wasn’t very hungry. Didn’t sleep. The silence in our home became very hard to bear as our anniversary arrived. I thought the day would drag on like a wound that just didn’t clot properly. But on that particular morning, someone knocked at the front door. Buck remained where he was, wearing his best riding vest with eyes full of tears. The sound of motorcycles could be heard in the background as the man walked. There are dozens in existence. People I had ridden with before and a few I didn’t even know. Many came from miles away, even from different states. More people were hearing about it.
They slowly followed a path to the top of Overlook Ridge which Margaret loved best. We would head up there in the autumn just to enjoy the sight of the leaves turning the sky red. I found wood workers bent over a beautifully crafted, smooth wooden casket. A few of the boys worked at night sanding and staining it in an old shed. Petals drifted across the ground, courtesy of neighbors who used to be unknown to me. Beside our son’s casket, we found a little bit of earth. A burial plot that is given as a gift.
I dropped to the ground and knelt down.
“Why did this occur?” I said, struggling to get the miracle out.
With a nod toward the island, Buck said, “Community.” Kratts says that Margaret was the architect of the place.
He was absolutely right. She dedicated herself to loving others deeply—realizing this with small gifts, daily meals, soothing counsels and open ears. When asked, she made blankets to be donated to newborn babies. Left cookies by the doors of my friends. Had cuddles with kids in hospitals who didn’t have a family nearby. All the love she shared with me returned to her when she was in need. Actually, when I finally did.
I wasn’t able to give her the burial she deserved. But she arranged for my wife and children to be with me, despite no longer being in our lives.