The Other Widow
I met a widow today. We were in a store, both shopping, and we struck up a conversation. She mentioned that she'd lost her husband in April and that now everyone expected her to get over it--to move on with life. No one understood. Then I told her about me--and how I'd lost my husband in March of 2010. I told her how it's a physical pain that we experience, like we're being cut apart. It's something only those who've lost would understand.
I meet lots of widows in my sales position. I've meet gay and straight, yet all talk about the pain of losing--a pain that does not just go away with the passing of time. They have a look about them too, a sort of hollowness that maybe only the people in our club can see. The woman I met today walked aimlessly through the store, her eyes unfocused. She was there to take away the pain. She'd filled her arms with expensive items. A year ago, I did the same, hoping that things could make me feel better. That maybe I could derive some comfort from a dress or a coat, but it doesn't work, because when I get home, no one is there to tell me how pretty I look wearing those things.
I'm in my second year now. At this point I'd say I've gotten use to the pain. I've learned to not focus on it, to live a somewhat normal life. I'm like the chronic pain sufferer that somehow finds a way to do the things needed in life. I've learned to laugh because I'm tired of crying. Yet, I still miss my husband. I still want him here. And sometimes in the wee hours of the night, when my mind floats freely toward sleep, I ask why he isn't with me. And life goes on.
Today is Labor Day. It's a day of husbands and wives, family, friends. It's a day for those who still have joy in their lives. Yet on this day I feel that I'm only witnessing life. That my part in it has been far too diminshed to think of it as a true life. I am existing.
I meet lots of widows in my sales position. I've meet gay and straight, yet all talk about the pain of losing--a pain that does not just go away with the passing of time. They have a look about them too, a sort of hollowness that maybe only the people in our club can see. The woman I met today walked aimlessly through the store, her eyes unfocused. She was there to take away the pain. She'd filled her arms with expensive items. A year ago, I did the same, hoping that things could make me feel better. That maybe I could derive some comfort from a dress or a coat, but it doesn't work, because when I get home, no one is there to tell me how pretty I look wearing those things.
I'm in my second year now. At this point I'd say I've gotten use to the pain. I've learned to not focus on it, to live a somewhat normal life. I'm like the chronic pain sufferer that somehow finds a way to do the things needed in life. I've learned to laugh because I'm tired of crying. Yet, I still miss my husband. I still want him here. And sometimes in the wee hours of the night, when my mind floats freely toward sleep, I ask why he isn't with me. And life goes on.
Today is Labor Day. It's a day of husbands and wives, family, friends. It's a day for those who still have joy in their lives. Yet on this day I feel that I'm only witnessing life. That my part in it has been far too diminshed to think of it as a true life. I am existing.
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