The Widow Diaries

Will You Be?

2/14/2017

Today I had so many offers to be a Valentine. I couldn't turn any of them down.

First a little mushroom tipped his hat to me by my heart-shaped rock when I walked out my front door

The sun peeked from behind the clouds to give me a cheer

The sidewalk flowers looked up at me with their pretty little faces to say hello

My dog smothered me with wet and wiggly-tailed kisses (wanted or not)

The warm and hearty food I made for myself warmed my heart

A baby, chubby and gurgly, gave me a gummy smile when I smiled at her

The pink and red decorations all around the shops downtown were as pretty as a postcard

It was the little moments of life that asked me to be their Valentine today -- and I said yes

We're never alone in this amazing life

Happy Valentine's Day to you all and enjoy all your lovely little moments

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Ho! Ho! Oh...

12/5/2016

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My son has just had a serious sit-down-over-cereal talk with me this morning to help me stay stress-free during the holidays this year. Maybe his advice can help you too.

I give you Exhibit A: The first two items on my son's Christmas wish list total more than my bi-monthly paycheck. They also come with "lift with your knees" warnings and helpful info regarding the six-packs of D batteries that we will not be finding inside. These trivialities are not to be worried about however, my son has explained to me. No Siree. I am not to stress about these multi-dollar gifts. Santa can give him these biggies, and the elves will be pre-assembling them up North.

Oh! Oh! Oh!

I've also been comforted by my son's knowledge that the elves will surely be getting the house company-ready while we sleep. No clean-up necessary by us local residents. Nope, those energetic North Polers are going to work their Windex magic while we catch our zzzs. So grateful am I to those elves! Helpful they are indeed.

Oh! Oh! Oh!

My son has assured me that no family picture at the beach, the park, or in front of the fireplace is necessary this year either. No one really needs a card from us again -- we sent one last year -- and, if memory serves him correctly, the last few years too. Yes, he distinctly remembers having to dress weird and stand next to his sister for hours. I am relieved, as is he, that we won't have to endure the pain of it all. Plus, and who can really argue his point, everyone already knows what we look like.

Oh! Oh! Oh!

I am also encouraged because my son has told me that our old faithful pre-lit Christmas tree is simply not needed this year. First of all, we don't even know where it is in the garage -- it could be anywhere! True statement. Second, if memory serves him correctly, more than half of the lights on it didn't even work last year. (With a memory like this, it is a wonder he can not find his left shoe... but I digress.) Third, and here's where it becomes so clear, grandma has a tree at her house -- we can just put all our presents under hers. Santa can just put stuff on our sofa. Problem solved.

Oh! Oh! Oh!

So, there you have it. This year, when I need it most, it seems I'm going to be able to just sit back with my eggnog and my feet up on the sofa (after I've scooched our presents out of the way) and just enjoy this year's blessed holiday. No stress. No worries. This is all such good news.

Thanks son.

Hope it helps you too.

Ho! Ho! Ho!

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Paper Memory

6/13/2016

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Frozen in time. Grocery lists. School papers. Kids' drawings. Bills. Notes. Then nothing.

Boxes like haunted time capsules, ominous with the everyday unknowing of what was to come. It's like helplessly reading a book, knowing that the heroine's ill fate awaits her when you turn the page. Your heart breaks for her innocent giddiness in planning for the upcoming holiday. She does not yet know she will spend it grieving, heart broken, drowning in an unrelenting sea of confusion.

Her children draw pictures of rainbows and hearts and smiling stick figures holding hands four in a row. They do not know in a week, a day, an hour's time, they will feel they can never draw again. The crayons will be boxed up and lost in storage and the pictures forgotten.

It's like watching a movie and wanting to scream to the pixel screen character, "Don't go in there! Turn back!" But the script has already been written, and the actors have all taken their places.

I have to remind myself that there is more to the telling of the tale as I revisit and attempt to find a new home for pages and pages of paper memory. The story continues on. The heroine stepped through the tragedy and walked on fire. She weathered the frightening storms, keeping her children close by her side and shielding them from forever harm. She cobbled together shelter and planted and sowed.

New pictures now arrive on the refrigerator with three stick figures where there were once four. Three figures at the top of a conquered mountain, holding hands, smiles on their faces. Above them, surrounding them, the rainbow has reappeared after the rain.

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Superman

4/6/2016

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Dragon slayer, tight-rope walker, man of steel, knight in shining armor. My husband has now reached epic proportions in my children's eyes. I've recounted every wonderful story I can conjure from my dusty vault of memories about him. Told them as bedtime stories and boredom busters during long car rides. But I'm starting to wonder -- have I gone too far?

The stories are all true of course. The kittens he saved from the top of a burning office building. The dog he rescued from the blazing heat of the desert. The death-defying leaps he'd make while rock climbing sheer cliffs just for the fun of it -- just because he could. The way he rocked his babies and softly sang the alphabet because he didn't know any lullabies. The countless ways he helped others, the people who asked him for help because they knew he could -- because they knew he would.

He was a hero, yes. He was also a man. A man with flaws and terrorizing demons he couldn't seem to ever shake despite his superhuman strength.

Life is hard. Mistakes happen. We are all human. One day, my children are going to know this as deep in their bones as I do. I will not be telling tarnishing tragedies and melodramas. They're true too, yes, but have faded into the background where they always belonged.

My children have the gift of a hero. A guardian angel who watches over them. He will always remain young. He will always be strong. He will never stop caring.

Their hero forever. His best self. Their father.

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Grief's Garden

3/20/2016

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My once beautiful garden is now overgrown, full of dry, gray weeds and long sticks where there once grew flowers. Neat rows and borders now wild and unruly without attention. Snails, slugs and hungry beetles have taken hold. It's a vision of heartbreak. A constant reminder of what once was and no longer is.

Still, under all the weeds, life remains. This sun is still giving its warmth and light. The rain falls and feeds. Bees with messages of sweet things hover. Ladybugs fight the good battle and carry hope on their armored backs.

It is me then who needs to toil under the sun. Pulling the weeds out with my hands and turning the soil. It is me who needs to dig down deep. To provide what is lacking. To harvest rich soil to grow in. To not just survive, but to begin to thrive again.

It is me who needs to keep a watchful eye. Dig out the roots of new weeds. Pull them when they're small, before they have room to spread and choke. It is me who needs to protect. Getting down on my knees and turning over leaves to be sure nothing is left hidden. I cannot see if I am only looking down.

It is me who needs to fill my bucket daily and bring water and life. Careful not to harm by overwatering -- giving too much when it is not needed -- drowning in love -- weakening instead of strengthening.

My heart needs to know that one day my garden will be beautiful again. Not today, as there is still much work to be done, and not tomorrow, as nature needs sweet time to heal that which is hurt -- but one day, down the way.

And on that day, when someday finally comes, and the toil is in the distance, I'll simply be walking down my path and I'll stop in admiration. On that day, when someday has come at last, what I see will make my soul proud, and like my garden, I will turn my face to the sun.

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How Did I Get Here?

5/27/2015

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How on earth did I get here? That's the question I find myself asking several times a day. In addition to the disturbing amount of time I now seem to talk to myself (there isn't anyone else here over 5 feet tall these days), is the reality of the question "How did I get here?" Sometimes it's a disbelief on where my life has taken me and sometimes it's that I truly can't remember how I got to the kitchen or why I'm there. Both are unnerving thoughts, the latter being highly unusual for my previously organized and multi-tasking brain.

That I am not myself is crystal clear to myself and everyone around me. The fact that I can't snap out of it makes me nervous. The grief I feel and the memories that come flooding in overwhelm me. The simple truth is: Sometimes the grief I feel is so enormous, there isn't room for anything else in my brain. How did I get to the kitchen? Who knows! I was engrossed in remembering a moment with my husband, trying to remember and feel and smell and somehow touch his memory. Another truth is: It's OK. This is where I am. This is what I'm going through.

I have learned to try to compartmentalize now and just focus on getting one simple task done at a time. Sometimes it takes a Herculean effort just to put on my shoes. I have to be ok with it. I have to let the old me go. I can't do things the way I always did, because everything has changed. My role has changed. Another role has vanished. My life experience has changed. I have changed.

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Will You Be?

Ho! Ho! Oh...

Paper Memory

Superman

Grief's Garden

How Did I Get Here?

Author

Archives

Category

Will You Be?

Ho! Ho! Oh...

Paper Memory﻿

Superman﻿

Grief's Garden

How Did I Get Here?

Author

Archives

Category

Paper Memory

Superman