The first wedding anniversary since the loss of my wife has come and gone this past January 3. I was expecting it to be a difficult day, and even with that expectation, it was much worse than I could have imagined.

On the night of our wedding, my wife Stephanie presented me with a candle that had been previously lit and placed on the alter as part of the service earlier that day. Every year since that first wedding night, we would get the candle out of storage along with our wedding album, light the candle, look through the pictures together, and just enjoy reliving that special day, reminding ourselves how blessed we are to have each other. It was our "secret" ritual.

Over time it became interesting to look at the pictures and see how much we, and our family and friends had changed over time, and sadly, note how with each passing year how many more people in the pictures were no longer with us. After about an hour or so, we would blow out the candle and put it away for another year. That candle has been lit every January 3 since our first wedding night.

This year, for the first time in 28 years, I lit the candle alone.

There is a type of grief I cannot describe. I'm sure others will recognize it. It is not the grief I cope with daily - the kind that seems to be getting a little better. The kind that follows you everywhere you go. No, this grief is what I experienced at the moment of her death, at the funeral, at the realization I was by myself. It leaves you physically exhausted, feeling ill, and detached from your surroundings. It's many things all at once, and it's debilitating. This all came back today. I hope it goes away soon and never returns, but I suspect that isn't going to happen.

I knew this was going to be hard, but I'm glad I worked up the strength to do it, and I plan to light that candle every year just as if she were still here. Maybe one year, she'll see that candle from her view from Heaven, and decide to join me.