That Weedy Word

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.

 

I came home and mowed and, as I've said, that gives me an hour to think. Today I was pondering the word "widow." Some widows hate the word, some don't care one way or the other. I, as usual, am outside both boxes. It certainly isn't anything I wanted to be, but since I am one, I embrace the word.

 

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.