Las Viudas

At the top of Mt Roberts in Juneau, Alaska, I met four people—three women and one man. They were speaking Spanish, and I said to Alyce that they were not from Mexico, probably somewhere in South America. So I asked them, just to be sure, and yes, they were from Peru, the place of the purest Spanish, they told me, and, apparently, the cultural seat of the universe, etc., etc. But I couldn’t really fault them for their national pride.

As we chatted, my Spanish faltering at times but their charity growing, one of the women asked if I traveled a lot. “No,” I said, “soy viuda.”

“Somos viudas también,” two of them said. "We are also widows, and she [pointing to the third] was a widow until she married my brother." Then he spoke up, putting his arm around her (she must have had extensive face work because she had the Wayne Newton permanent smile, and she wore a lot of makeup, all in an effort to appear younger; can’t fault her for that, either), “She’s my second wife.”

I said, “Claro,” meaning, “Of course,” meaning also that I had made certain assumptions.

The two widows then told me they travel extensively, go all over together, having great fun and good companionship. “You should find a widow, too,” they told me--a thought I had never entertained. Two or three came to mind, all in their 80s.

I guess I’ll have to start looking for a younger widow. Or not.