In the weeks leading up to Matt’s death in August, all he wanted was to go home to England. He was desperate to return, desperate to show our daughter the places we are now visiting without him. He longed to walk those familiar streets and landscapes one last time, surrounded by the people and memories he loved most. Physically, he simply couldn’t make the trip, but that didn’t stop him from searching for flights, planning routes, and holding onto hope. Telling him he couldn’t go was devastating, but deep down, I truly believe he would have died on the plane trying.
Matt had very specific wishes about where his ashes should be spread, but the most important place to him was Wales — a place he had vacationed his entire life. He spoke about Wales with such warmth and affection that I always knew when a story started there, it was going to be a good one, filled with laughter and nostalgia.
Wales turned out to be every bit as magical as I imagined through his stories. On our first night, friends who were more like family to Matt welcomed us with a beautiful dinner party. We met people we had only known through his memories and words. We hugged, cried, laughed, and felt completely wrapped in love by those who had loved Matt so deeply. That feeling stayed with us all weekend, and yesterday, as I met his closest group of friends, I fought hard to keep the tears from spilling over.
The love and laughter Matt shared with these people meant everything to him. He made me promise to bring him here and make Wales one of his final resting places. So yesterday at noon, while the tide was out, we gathered in front of the holiday chalets he spoke about so often. I could almost see him there at different ages, running back and forth with his friends. Watching our daughter run across the same ground he once did felt surreal and magical. She was bursting with excitement.
She picked up a shovel and, without any prompting, began drawing in the sand. She wrote, “I love you.” It took my breath away — the quiet power of her leaving a message for her dad in the sand was overwhelming.
Leading up to this day, I worried about how she would handle it all. On the day we flew to England, I had to explain what cremated remains were. It was the week before Christmas, and there was no way I could carry a box through the airport without her curious six-year-old mind wanting to know what was inside. I gently explained it to her that morning, and in true Matt’s-child fashion, she shrugged, said, “That’s creepy,” and moved on with her day.
Her honesty gives me so much life. That long travel day brought much-needed comic relief as she loudly announced, “Mama, don’t forget Daddy in the box!” every time we moved from one part of the airport to another. Never a dull moment with her.
When it was time to spread the ashes, we gathered around her drawing. We had no formal plan, no script, and somehow, the way everything unfolded naturally made it even more beautiful. She added to her artwork, drawing our little family of three, and then carefully wrote, “I love my dad.”
I said a few words. I hadn’t prepared anything beforehand, and I’m glad I didn’t. Instead, I focused on what Matt wanted me to tell the people he loved most — how deeply he loved them, and how special they were to him. I kept it simple, just the way he would have wanted.
He did ask me to play one song: “Better Man” by Robbie Williams, live at Knebworth. He must have listened to that version a million times during the seven years I knew him, right up until the day he died. He loved it.
I played it from my phone as the small ceramic jar holding his ashes was passed gently from person to person. One by one, everyone sprinkled him over the words “I love you” that Quinn had written in the sand.
A bottle of champagne was opened, poured, and eventually passed around freely. There was also a flask of honey rum from Spain — a perfect touch, since Matt loved Tenerife. Just as he wanted, it became a celebration. He was always the life of the party.
When the tide comes in, it will wash over her drawing and carry him into the sea he loved, in the place he loved most. We will always be able to return here, knowing a part of him will never leave.
Matt, we love you. Hearing the stories yesterday — about running from cows, vodka slushies, and all the trouble you managed to get yourself into and out of — healed something in my heart. I promised I’d bring you here. You must have known how much we needed to meet your people, to feel their love, and to understand just how deeply you were cherished. You loved Wales, and Wales loved you right back. Still does. Always will. It was a part of you — and now, you will forever be a part of it.
