Dear John,
Have I told you lately that I love you, adore you, and worship the ground you walk on?
I had my first day of training on the vault. It was unusually busy for a Wednesday, but both my drawer and the vault balanced and people said I did well. They said I didn't get flustered, and I said that it's hard to fluster me after twenty years of critical care - nobody died, so it's okay.

There's a dignity to it. It isn't just a status like "single." It has more meaning than that. I suppose I am single now, but that word implies availability, and I am not. Being a widow means that I have loved and been loved, and that a man loved me enough to spend the rest of his life with me. It suggests that I am in a state of mourning, which I certainly am. And it connects me to all the other widows who have ever lived, that vast sisterhood of strong, brave women.
If I have to be here without you, let me always be your widow. That may be the most important thing - I'm YOUR widow. The word binds me to you, says that I still belong to you, which I certainly do. If I can't be your wife, let me always be your widow.
Forever yours,
Joan.
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