Notes

This is what I wrote after one year:

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—nothing remarkable—when people 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 Schiess. I do not believe widows count for much 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.

Now, six years and 10 months after Wayne's death, I suppose I am used to being alone. It is the prominent fact of my life, after all. But I still do not feel quite right as a widow. Not the part in life I would ever choose. How does one play it well?