I’ve been widowed two years. What now? What’s next? Anything?
My future feels as blank as it did on the first anniversary of Jon’s death, as inscrutable as in the days and weeks that came after that phone call from the hospital. I can’t visualize a future for myself.
I can see the present. It’s got a big empty spot where Jon is supposed to be. But otherwise it’s filled with stuff. Real things. Palpable, graspable things.
I’ve got books to finish writing, for one thing. And there are household projects to tend to: An upstairs bathroom where the shower stopped working two months ago. Carpeting in the den still stained from the pre-pandemic house remodel.
I have things and projects — but I also have people: A knitting group I joined, not for the knitting (me? knit?), but for the chatter. A weekend retreat with women from my church. Neighbors and friends who have tucked me into their friendship circles. And, of course, my son and daughter and their families.
So — there’s a lot of stuff in my present. But none of it holds clues to my future — or whether I’ll be happy in my future.
Widowed Two Years
Last weekend, daughter Christina and I made the journey across the Bay to the cemetery at Cypress Lawn in Colma, where Jon is buried with his sister, his parents and his Newhall ancestors going all the way back to his great-great-grandparents.
Christina and I did what we did last year; we brought Jon’s favorite vegetables — asparagus, avocado, artichoke — to put on his grave. That’s all we can do for Jon. We can’t touch him or look him in the eye. We can only leave something for him on the spot where he now is, and very much isn’t.
Vegetables for Jon, Camellias for Everyone Else
This year, in addition to vegetables for Jon, we took camellias from our front yard for the rest of the family.
I consider that progress. Apparently, two years in, I now have the emotional wherewithal to remember the other people who are buried here: The niece who died at age 51. The great-grandmother who died at age 22 giving birth to Jon’s grandfather. The 12-year-old sister who was killed by a runaway truck in 1955.
We spent an hour or so wandering about the cemetery, placing flowers and reading mossy tombstones. When it was time to go, I stopped to say good-bye to Jon.
Conversing With the Dead?
Unlike many widows I know, I find it impossible to have conversations with my dead husband. But on this, the second anniversary of his death, I decided to give it a try.
“I miss you, Jon,” I said to the slab of granite that marks his grave. “Help me figure out how to be happy.”
No answer.
I’m not surprised. That kind of question always made Jon uneasy. He’d find a way to dodge it.
He hasn’t changed a bit.
Yes, I’m still working on my books. Here’s a story from my writing room: “Obama, the Rhetorician in the White House. Or, How I Learned to Love the Passive Voice.” Here’s one about Jon being Jon: “A Dad, a Mom and an 8-year-old With a Bashed Lip.”
Well, this one made me cry. I didn’t know Jon had a sister who died at 12; killed by a runaway truck. Sadly Jon and Leah share that horrible trauma. Jesse was 9.5, on his way home from 4th grade, and killed by a runaway truck. Death of a loved one is hard because forever is a long time to live without them. EB
Jon’s family didn’t talk about Penny’s accident very often. I’m sure it was too painful.
during these past two years, you have given me so much to think about, and feel. i admire how you are handling jon’s absence and marvel at your strength. not that i’m surprised. looking forward to sunday and your next essay …
I’m cooking up the next essay even as we speak. Hope the writing will go OK as I’m taking a day off to head into wine country for a women’s retreat with the women at my church.
I think you’re doing remarkably well for being only two years in. My Mom (102 at the end of March) always sings the Doris Day song, “Que Sera, Sera,” whenever I speak of the future, and she’s right, of course … What will be, will be. The future’s not ours to see.
It seems you have a pretty good handle on the present, and that you are doing “stuff”. That’s more than many people can claim. All we have is today, so go for it!
PS. love your work!
Hi Diane. I especially like your observation, “only two years in.” Like a lot of people, I thought I’d be feeling a lot less grief by now … Lucky you, with a 102-year-old mother, one who can remember the words to that old Doris Day song. Good advice. Thank your mother. I’m going to take it.
Very sweet piece, Barbara. You write well.
Thank you, Bill. That means a lot coming from a writer colleague!
Barbara, The loss remains as stark as the day it happened.The grieving continues as we try to fill the hole they left in out hearts. The anniversary of Ralph’s death is a month away and the 46 years we had together are my treasure. Thank you for this expression of love that always gives me tears and joy. Nancy
Ah, the anniversary is approaching. The widows I know all say it’s important to mark the anniversary in some way, preferably with someone to keep you company. I was planning to go it alone on the second anniversary of Jon’s death, but then I realized I’d need some company. Daughter Christina flew in to be there. (Thank you, Christina.)