I’ve been widowed for nearly nine months now. And I still can’t let go of the we — the we-ness of marriage.
Talking to the landscape designer, it’s our backyard. With the plumber, it’s the toilet in our downstairs bath. When the handyman arrives in his truck, it’s OK for him to block our driveway. When the gutter guys come by later this month, it will be to clear the debris from our gutters.
What gives?
Two things.
I Can’t — Won’t — Let Go of Jon
First of all, yes, indeed I am having trouble letting go of Jon and the wonderful we-ness of our 44-year marriage. If I let on to myself that our house is now my house — my backyard and my clogged gutters, then Jon is indeed gone, once and for all, and there’s no coming back.
Jon is not coming back. I know that. My frontal lobe knows that. But my other brainy parts hang on to him still. In their experience of things, no way can something as alive and vivid as the person of Jon Newhall be extinguished. It is not possible. Jon is here, there, somewhere, and this is still our house and our broken toilet.
My, Mine — It Feels Selfish
Second of all, it doesn’t feel right to talk about my new patio. Or my bedroom. It feels selfish, self-centered.
When I was young and single, I relished having my own place — my apartment, furnished with my woolen braid rug, my tippy dining table acquired at a thrift shop, and my lumpy mattress, also from a thrift shop.
But then along came Jon, and over the decades I’ve spent with him, I have acquired a taste for the we of things.
(Notice that I wrote “the decades I’ve spent with him” — implying the action is ongoing. If I had written, “decades I spent with him,” I’d be describing a time done and over with, wouldn’t I?)
For all these years, it has been our house, our kids, our bank accounts, our new redwood deck shaded by our seven-story cypress tree.
Of course, this house holds lots of stuff that is mine. My childhood china set, made in post-war Japan, for example. And my collection of folk art.
Yes, Jon hauled the Talavera, the Tlaquepaque, the Tonala and the Oaxaca plates home from Mexico and he helped me hang them all over the house. But hand-made folk art is my thing, not his.
Sliding Into We-Ness
Over the years with Jon, I was not aware that I was sliding into this we-ness of marriage. It happened without anybody noticing. We bought a house. We had children. We remodeled the kitchen. We ate dinner at 7. We watched the news.
On our long drives down Highway 5 to Los Angeles to visit our daughter, we would take along our New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle book. Our goal was to finish one of those super tough puzzles by the time we hit the 101.
Is that nuts, taking turns reading crossword puzzle clues aloud to each other while driving the Interstate? Of course it’s nuts. But that’s Jon and me.
It was us.
More from The Grammar Geek at “Is It Ever OK to Use the Passive Voice?” And, “Making Friends With the Dread Serial Comma.”
Dear sweet Barbara, Jon was a lucky guy to have found you when he did. I love your musings on ‘we’. I still think of you as you and Jon. I miss him too. I think now that Patrick is home, we all might have gathered more as they enjoyed each other. This makes me sad. So many bottles of wine and so much laughter we could have shared on our decks.
I like the comment from your friend Suzanne – carry on with the we-ness. Grief has no time table. We each do our own thing – I did my thing and Patrick did his, Maybe it’s both — we and I. When someone dies, we cannot stop loving them because they died. I found that we each grieve how we do anything else. Patrick was shorter and more intense. My grief went on for years, and years. Then I did step into acceptance. Write your book. Hugs, eb
Yes. The bottles of wine we might have enjoyed! Jon would have liked that, as long as there was lots of Cabernet involved . . . The great thing about Jon (OK, one of them) is that he supported me (the I) in everything I did. “You want to write a book, Barbara? Go for it!”) Except that he never had to say things like that out loud. I knew it already.
Your insights on grief, spoken and not, are a huge help to me. It’s good to know you are there.
Barb, I so want to reach out and hug you! I loved your blog about Jon and “the we” that I sent it on to a friend who I am sure will totally relate.
Thanks for passing the link along. I’ll get to your neck of the woods one day soon and collect that hug in person.
I see nothing at all wrong with continuing the we, especially when you talk about things that you have done/created together. Your children will always be “our children, ” your house was built and created as a part of your marriage. These things are the living testaments to the “we.” Because he is not still here with us does not mean he is removed from all that you built together, they still bear his love and efforts. Me and My is nice is some ways but it really doesn’t matter which pronouns you use, use the ones that feel right to you.
Thank you, Suzie. Jon is so much with me in all the things we did together.
So true. I’m sure Jon is very pleased to hear/read your words about him and your we-ness. He’s bound to be smiling all day long, with an occasional tear or two. And we are all blessed to read about your we-ness. Thank you for sharing. 💕💕💕🙏🙏🙏.
The smile would look about like the one in the photo — with his son’s affectionate hand on his shoulder.
I totally understand, Barbara. It’s been 4 years since Mel passed away, and I realize I should say I instead of we. So I’m about halfway there. I force myself to say “I” but it just doesn’t sound right.
Hang in there.
Hugs,
Jan
Really interesting. This goes on for a while, it looks like. There’s more here than meets the eye . . .
That is the best description of Love I have ever read.
Oh, Teddy. That is so sweet hearing from you!
I’ve so enjoyed reading your posts about your life with your beloved. Today, I’m reminded of Mark Nepo’s poem, “Adrift.”
Everything is beautiful and I am so sad.
This is how the heart makes a duet of
wonder and grief. The light spraying
through the lace of the fern is as delicate as the fibers of memory forming their web around the knot in my throat. The breeze makes the birds move from branch to branch
as this ache makes me look for those I’ve lost in the next room, in the next song, in the laugh of the next stranger. In the very center, under it all, what we have that no one can take away and all that we’ve lost face each other. It is there that I’m adrift, feeling punctured by a holiness that exists inside everything.
Oh, my. That is a poem to spend some time with. Thank you.
Love your insights. Thinking of you often. I remember fondly our driving to Bishops Ranch in the rain all those years ago.
Deidre
Yes. I remember that trip fondly as well. The nice thing about getting older is that we have so very many experiences to revisit and enjoy.
Love this. So often people dealing with such a tough situation as this have a difficult time putting words to their experience which you are doing so beautifully. This piece is a gem. The We of Things. Like it. A title?
Two votes for “The We of Things”!
This is a wonderful article, Barb. If/when you write a book, you could entitle it, “The We of Things.” XOXO
I love it. Marcia. Great idea.
I’ve noticed this in your language, and I’m glad he’s still a part of it.
Last night, your Grandchild No. 1 turned a photo of you and Jon into an important, active part of her gymnastics setup. He’s still a part of our household too.
I’m so glad Grandchild No. 2 remembers her Grandpa Jon.
And his grandniece last night also spoke with him on the baby-phone about cats! 😀
Cats! I’m pretty sure that got his attention!