This coming August I will be celebrating my 1 year anniversary. But this week I was away from my Hubby and it's strange. Sleeping in an empty bed, without Jilly and the grunts of my loving man. My pillow, left behind from a trip up north, smells strangely like my Hubby at the cottage. Covered in sunscreen, lake water and lanolin. It's warm and comforting much like Hubby himself. And I miss him, he makes me laugh.
While sitting on my parent's front porch saying our goodnights over the phone I glance at the widow's house across the street. In her younger years she was a supply teacher with high blood pressure. Her husband was a notorious drinker, who drove home in his old pickup truck, generally parking askew across their lawn. There was many a screaming match heard echoing through the neighborhood as he arrived home in the early hours; driving dangerously down our rural street lined with kids. And though he often slept in his beat up truck to avoid the wrath of his wife she loved him desperately. She waited up for him, greeting him at the door. The smells of roasting beef and fresh apple pie lingering around their home. But as is the case with many people who live frivolously he died early, leaving a wife and semi grown kids, who had both left home early to avoid their toxic relationship. And as I sit and watch the tv flicker softly through her living room window I can see her sitting there alone. She has been watching tv alone for more than 15 years. With only the occasional church bake sale or visit from her children and grandchildren breaking up her days. And that makes me sad.
After our goodbyes I climb the stairs to my childhood bedroom. Through my window I can see the backyard neighbour who is also a widow. Her husband consumed by illness. Slowly wasted away into a shell of the robust man who used to take such pride in his garden. The man who used to repair his own siding and fix his own car. The man she married young and stayed in love with for as long as I can remember, there was nothing she could do but try to make him more comfortable. Their grown children taking shifts watching and waiting for his soft exit. I can see her sitting on her deck in the fading daylight alone and it makes me sad.
Curling up alone in this bed that smells strangely like my Hubby I can't help but be thankful that we are just starting out together. His smells good and bad are all around me. But so are his arms. There is such a sense of loss in the eyes of the widows walking the streets of my former small town. Like in wartime when women were left to fight on the home front while the men lost their souls for the higher calling of peace. But this war is daily, a fight to stay in love. A life alone spent fighting for all the memories that a widow holds dear, but for now I will embrace my lucky stars and kiss my Hubby and fight for love each day. So that if the day comes that I am sitting on my deck alone I will remember my love, and I won't be sad anymore.
While sitting on my parent's front porch saying our goodnights over the phone I glance at the widow's house across the street. In her younger years she was a supply teacher with high blood pressure. Her husband was a notorious drinker, who drove home in his old pickup truck, generally parking askew across their lawn. There was many a screaming match heard echoing through the neighborhood as he arrived home in the early hours; driving dangerously down our rural street lined with kids. And though he often slept in his beat up truck to avoid the wrath of his wife she loved him desperately. She waited up for him, greeting him at the door. The smells of roasting beef and fresh apple pie lingering around their home. But as is the case with many people who live frivolously he died early, leaving a wife and semi grown kids, who had both left home early to avoid their toxic relationship. And as I sit and watch the tv flicker softly through her living room window I can see her sitting there alone. She has been watching tv alone for more than 15 years. With only the occasional church bake sale or visit from her children and grandchildren breaking up her days. And that makes me sad.
After our goodbyes I climb the stairs to my childhood bedroom. Through my window I can see the backyard neighbour who is also a widow. Her husband consumed by illness. Slowly wasted away into a shell of the robust man who used to take such pride in his garden. The man who used to repair his own siding and fix his own car. The man she married young and stayed in love with for as long as I can remember, there was nothing she could do but try to make him more comfortable. Their grown children taking shifts watching and waiting for his soft exit. I can see her sitting on her deck in the fading daylight alone and it makes me sad.
Curling up alone in this bed that smells strangely like my Hubby I can't help but be thankful that we are just starting out together. His smells good and bad are all around me. But so are his arms. There is such a sense of loss in the eyes of the widows walking the streets of my former small town. Like in wartime when women were left to fight on the home front while the men lost their souls for the higher calling of peace. But this war is daily, a fight to stay in love. A life alone spent fighting for all the memories that a widow holds dear, but for now I will embrace my lucky stars and kiss my Hubby and fight for love each day. So that if the day comes that I am sitting on my deck alone I will remember my love, and I won't be sad anymore.
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