young widowhood

Widow Protection Program


“Half of life is fucking up the other half is dealing with it.”

 Henry Rollins(American rock singer, author, actor and poet, b.1961)


You see those stories on the news about people who disappear without a trace only to be found months or years later living a completely new life somewhere else. They can’t tell you how they got there or who they were before. I believe many of these people were in the midst of packing to move when they snapped and walked away, reasoning that it would be easier to simply start again with a new identity than try to pack up their old lives to transport to new locations.

Well, tempted as I still am, I will be taking many of our current possessions with us to Canada. Nearly everything is packed. Much of it is loaded up on the U-Haul and ready to go. 

I am still horrified by the amount of crap I own. More horrified by the piles of paper that have yet to be sorted from even before Will died. I have been a sloth, and I am no longer inclined to give myself a pass. Can’t plead widow to this one. I haven’t been taking care of business. And there is much to attend to and more waiting. Sometimes you just have to be an adult and man-up, and this in spite of those who would have you believe that it is okay to shift blame to your circumstances. 

Unshed Tears


Tears have been close to the surface all day long. So many memories to sort through, pack, and give away. I found the binder they gave me when Will went into hospice. It has been moved from place to place, lost, forgotten and resurfacing with regularity ever since. It was time to take it back. I have been meaning to do so since the first of the year, but now it really was time. I could have thrown it away, I suppose. It’s just a binder with information on the process of dying. What is normal. What to expect. I am sure they didn’t need it back. But it felt wrong to throw it away, so I took it back.

When I walked in there was no one at the front desk. There hardly ever was though because they depend on volunteers to do many things, and this was one of them. I had hoped that one day I would be able to volunteer at the hospice. Give back a bit. But I haven’t been strong enough. My compromise has been trying to be supportive of people on the board. I succeed about half the time, I think.

I checked the staff rooms, but they were empty. I went into the chapel and looked at the book with the names of the deceased, but the book was for this year only and Will’s name wasn’t there. Finally, I ventured back towards the rooms. Will was in room 5. I could see that the room was occupied so I didn’t head towards it, but a part of me wanted to look in. Not because I thought he would be there, but because it is the last place I ever saw him. And I don’t miss seeing him the way he was,especially that last year, but as I prepare to move away and truly start a new life with Rob, I have this homesick feeling for Will.

A nurse appeared from the kitchen then and asked if she could help me, and I handed her the binder, explaining that I was moving and wanted to return it. She looked a bit confused. I guess most people just throw the binder away. I couldn’t really explain that I had given enough away for the day.

As I headed out the front door to my car, I could almost hear him tell me that I shouldn’t have gone there, That he wasn’t there anymore. Indeed he is rarely around at all. I don’t feel him in the house or at the cemetery or even hear him much in my mind. It’s like he is telling me with his absence that it is time we both got on with the present we are living and head towards the futures we are meant to have. And he is right. I have been absent myself. Living and planning and being happy. It’s time.

Daughter of the Bride


In my purging and packing, I decided it was time to let go of my wedding dress. The one I married Will in eight years ago this coming August. There was no reason to keep it. Daughters want gowns of their own and not the outdated ones of there mothers. I did keep the veil however. It is a family heirloom. My sister, Kate and I decided it would be anyway seven summers ago when she wore it to marry. We decided that we would force our yet unborn daughters and daughters in law to wear it. Gowns are a product of the fashion ills of their times, but a veil is a veil. So I kept the veil and showed it to my little girl, lover of all things princess. She, of course, had to try it on at once and have her picture taken. It might be the only picture of her in it I get. I remember trying on my mother’s gown and veil when I was about 8. Which was the only time I fit into it really. Mom weighed ninety-two pounds when she married Dad. Even if I had been able to wiggle into it though, I wouldn’t have wanted to wear it. It was hers and not me at all. Katy may have my same headstrong and willful nature and certainly is my match on the patience scale, but we are different people, and my perfectly Disneyfied princess child will always have a better sense of style than I.