Lunch Break

I had lunch at home alone today. I made myself an egg salad sandwich on black bread and ate it in the kitchen while browsing through a cookbook. I’ve done this lots of times but today it felt different. I just wasn’t sitting alone eating my lunch. I was a widow alone in my house eating a solitary meal.

I still can’t figure out what that word widow means to me. I know what it felt like to be a mother, a wife, a sister and a daughter but being a widow that’s still a mystery to me. Should I dress in all white or black? Let my hair turn gray, stop wearing makeup, buy some sensible shoes? Maybe I should take up bridge, learn to knit or devote myself to “good works” whatever that means. But seriously, I really don’t know how to behave, what to feel or what, if anything, is expected of me.

I’m happy, I’m sad, I remember, I forget all in the same day. It’s exhausting, confusing and always unsettling. I used to feel that change was a challenge I could rise to and learn from. Unpredictability was thrilling not frightening. I prided myself on my strength, my openness to new things, my independence. But this change, this sudden reversal, this loss—hell, let’s call a spade a spade--this tragedy is a test of all my coping skills.

Well, I lived with Steve for 41 years. I guess that says something about my ability to survive.

Bonjour Tristesse

I am in Paris for the weekend, what a decadent idea. It’s beautiful of course. Along with Bob and Jane, I have spent the last two days eating, walking, drinking, walking, eating, drinking, eating, drinking, walking. . . you get the picture. It’s been fun. We’ve laughed together, eaten some wonderful food, had some great wines. It’s good to know we can still do it—have fun, go away together, be happy.

They say that amputees still retain feeling in the limb they lose. Like having a phantom leg or arm that still demands to be scratched, I have a phantom husband whose voice talks to me everywhere I go. I walk the streets imagining what he’d be doing—listening patiently as I read to him from my Michelin, being ridiculous with every waiter and salesperson we meet. When I look at the menu in a restaurant, I know exactly what he would order—foie gras and steak and frites, despite my nagging.

Is there anywhere in the world where I won't hear his voice or see his face.

Mental Health Break

I was beginning to wonder when if I would ever be able to write about something other than death, depression, loneliness, despair a.k.a. my new normal. Well, here it is.

Yesterday during a late afternoon visit to the Reading Terminal Market, who did I bump into but PRESIDENT BARACK OBAMA. We were both at the Fair Food stand buying healthy things so, of course, we stopped and chatted. I told him all about Liz and the farm dinners she produces in Jamaica. I said it was all right that Michelle was copying the idea for her dinner for the wives of the world leaders in town for the UN session. I asked after his kids and his mother-in-law. I told him I loved him forever and gave him a big kiss and a hug.

Just kidding...but I did get to shake his hand.

Lost

Yesterday I said, “I lost my husband last month.” It sounded like I had misplaced him somewhere in the house. Maybe he was filed away in a drawer full of random papers or crammed in the back of an overstuffed closet.

“So how are you doing,” she asked. I thought does she mean have I found him yet. I didn’t know what to say.

A Gift

Looking for the beauty in every day...

Happy New Year

I am sitting in front of a roaring fire admiring its perfect log cabin construction. (One of the legacies of my eight years of overnight camp is my stellar fire building ability. That and learning how to smoke cigarettes my CIT year. Oh yeah, there’s also the copper ashtray I made in arts and crafts for my dad’s office. He was a doctor, believe it or not, but this was before the Surgeon-General’s report on the dangers of smoking.)

It’s the second day of Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish new year. If I were a kid back in Yeadon after services I’d be heading over to Loehmann’s in Drexel Hill with my mom to suss out the bargains. But instead, I am alone in my house in Maine trying to stay warm (it’s fucking freezing here!), listening to Jill Scott and contemplating my new year and new life, one without my mate, my life partner, my husband.

Steve is all over the house. I see him on the bench on the dock staring out at the lake, in the kitchen swiping pretzels out of the canister, in the back room trying to get the fucking TV to work. His camp pictures stare down at me from above the fireplace mantle. I hate that I feel so out of place here. I can’t wait to get back to Philadelphia but then I’m sad to think of leaving his presence behind. Will he be as lonely without me as I am without him?

Love Letters

My husband wrote me love letters. Every year for my birthday and our anniversary he would buy me huge cards with poetic messages, the best that Hallmark could deliver. I picture him at the stationary store carefully examining each card, studying the words and then finally selecting just the right one. He would cover all the blank spaces with long, never ending sentences full of feeling and love. The only punctuation would be exclamation marks. He couldn’t wait to give me his card. He’d put it under my pillow at night or present it with a flourish first thing in the morning. I had to read it aloud slowly and carefully and assure him that I understood and valued every word. My cards were just the opposite. Usually humorous. Always with a brief sign off: Love from your lovely wife. I wonder if he was disappointed.