The Starting Place

Some people think that being sad at the death of your loved one is a denial of your faith. It isn't. And it isn't a sin. It's natural, understandable. I think sadness cannot be the end of all we feel, but I see it as a necessary starting place. And I see value in writing of it. Like this.

1/27/04
It’s a year now. Widowhood does not suit me. What am I supposed to do, to be like? I always knew that as I aged, people would lose sight of me. And I always knew that if I appeared ordinary—can’t find the right word—when they saw me with Wayne, I would be, somehow, more acceptable, better looking, legitimized. If I resented it, I banked on it too. Now, I am really aging, and he is gone. I cannot put my arm through his or walk along side of him or look across any room and see what he’s up to. He’s gone and I am the widow. I do not believe widows count in our society.

Beyond that, I miss him. No, it was not a perfect marriage, if such a thing exists. But that is not the point. What is the point? I’m not sure, but I say this: we were part of each other. Now he is not here, waking or sleeping, though something of him is in every room of the house. I don’t mean only the physical bits and pieces that indicate he lived here; I mean the sense of him, the feel of him. It’s in the air here. It moves through the walls and if I ever have the sense that it touches me I am one happy woman—for a few moments.

Lonely. No one here to grumble at or smile with. No one to rub my feet or ask me if that is something new I’m wearing and tell me how nice it looks, how nice I look. No one to prepare food for, do laundry for, consult with on this or that, look to for answers and safety and that kind of comfort I knew when he was here.