Writing a sentence about Stephanie that hasn't yet been published here, I caught myself typing a cliché — something about "my wife, rest her soul."
Stopped short and looked at those words, knew they were wrong and immediately backspaced that phrase to oblivion. Then I had to ponder why "rest her soul" seemed so inappropriate.
Steph slept, of course, and she liked to relax in the evenings, but her idea of a good time was chasing adventure, doing something new, learning something interesting, visiting someplace different. Rest? Steph only rested when she'd been beaten down by her kidney problems, and her hassles with doctors, nurses, and the dialysis clinic. Even when she needed to rest, it was only to recharge her batteries so she could have a new adventure or win the next day's kidney battles. Steph might take a day or two off, but there's no way she would allow her soul to rest for all eternity.
We never believed in the great hereafter, but if we were mistaken and somehow Stephanie's essence never died, her soul would go to Paris, and then to Istanbul. Her soul would return to Russia and London, places she'd visited long before I knew her, and then she would be off to Australia, Morocco, Greece, Vietnam, India, Chile, China, New Zealand, Myanmar, Italy, Brazil, Iceland, Antarctica, and Mars. No time for rest, not even resting in peace. Steph's afterlife itinerary would be a whirlwind.
And after seeing everything that time and space can offer, Stephanie's soul would settle into one of the easy chairs in our apartment, and hang out with me and our new cat.