Widow

Heading home in the light of a winter moon, I followed the ripple of silver along the distant hills.  The car crunched on the snow packed driveway and followed the white ribbon of moonlight to the house. And there, hanging over the roof, was Orion's Belt.

Gathering my books and grocery bags, I trudged to the end of the deck- bundles heavy in my cold hands, their weight pulling at my shoulders.  Alone, I gazed at the deep blue velvet punctured by the brilliance of evening stars. Just above the trio of pine trees hung the sky jewels that proclaimed the tale of Orion to the ancients. For years, Bill would point it out, his hands firm as he aimed my gaze and I leaned against his strong chest.  No wonder he loved the night sky- it is so clear here, the stars so distinct in their storied patterns.  This night a jet passed over my head with its muffled hum, trailing a contrail of falling silver sparklers.  I thought of Bill- that young boy searching the night sky, dreaming of flight and walking among the stars. My heart ached in the dark.

For today, another Bill died. Another woman became a widow. Her sister leads my weekly women's Bible study. She is also a widow. Nine years. We count.

I'm told, "You don't look young enough to be a widow." Well, he was young. But no one who has loved is old enough to be a widow.

Now our newest member joins the sorority no woman wants to join. No ne wants to be chosen.  No one rushes this house, this place of sorrow and mourning.  Yet we are sisters. My moorings cut loose, I find  other widows, fellow travelers on their own memory strewn journeys.  I wonder about Sylvia who wept every day for the year and more after her husband's death. Every day. It takes time, no one can predict the time or space needed. You cannot push the grief away but slogging through it is exhausting.

I think of Sarah- two days longer than me. Five years.  We count.  Of a new friend in that first numbing year. Another sister that joined this club without rules, a sorority without comforting rites and rituals.  No longer does black preserve extra consideration, clucking sympathy from the edges of the world - the world we eventually have to reenter. We are anonymous, isolated. I'm glad this newest member has her sister. Who else can you call at three in the morning? She doesn't know she could call any one of us.

And what I can say that will help? I know her from afar, she is an aquaintance. I pray I don't say something stupid, unthinking.  Useless platitudes burned my own heart not long ago but it's still hard to know the right words. Only a deliberate word, a prayerful word brings life.  A look can comfort. Silence can be even better.  For I cannot know how she feels. We all mourn our own losses in our own fashion.

"How are you doing?", we ask recent widows.  "I don't know" was my default answer. And now, five years later, some days, I still don't know. If Margie asks, I will tell her,  "Most nights, I don't need to make a nest of pillows to feel something solid pressing against my back. There are days I don't think of him at all. Life continues. I 'm busy. " But that is just some days.

For there are plenty of days when my loss catches me by the throat and I lose my breath, my balance. I wonder what he'd think of this house. Of me, without him. Would he be proud of me in my new life I'm making?  Or would he resent my decisions?  Who would I be without the watershed of his death?  Hard questions dig into me as I stand on the  cold, dark porch.

 I don't even want my old life back, I want him here in this one with me. I want him to rock with me on the porch and soak up this place that was bought by his sacrifices. I want him to gaze again at the western sky and show me the constellations of the heavens.

Most days are full and he is a fleeting thought, a sweet remembrance, a smile. Then I see Orion hanging as protector over my house and I weep, surprised again at the quick squeeze of pain, the disbelief that this is my life.  I am a widow.