That sentence became the walls of my life. It was the sentence spoken by the state trooper who stood on my porch at three in the morning while the porch light flickered above his hat. It was the sentence repeated by the funeral director when he gently explained why the casket could not be opened. It was also the sentence confirmed by my son in law, Calvin Brooks, who stood beside me and my wife Dorothy Grant with a stiff expression that looked like the kind men wear when they believe they must appear strong for everyone else.
They told us the fire from the crash had been so violent that there was almost nothing left.
A week later someone delivered an urn to our home. It was brass, heavy, and colder than anything I had ever held in my hands. It sat on the living room mantel like a quiet monument to grief.
Dorothy lasted six months after that.