We vegged on the sofa and watched TV with the shell-shocked look that had become our default mode until it was time to go to bed. The girls crawled up on my bed, and we did evening prayer, lounging and talking.
Was I ok to sleep alone, they wondered. As did I. There was comfort in the hotel with them in the next bed; I won’t lie about that. Barb offered to sleep on the floor next to me on a pallet like we used to make up for her when she was little and she woke early and didn’t want to stay in her own bed. She’d come into our room and crawl down in her comfy bedroll and look at her books. This bought us an extra 30 minutes’ sleep in the morning. Sometimes when she got scared at night she came and slept there as well, and we got used to checking to see if she was there when we got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. Now she was asking me if I wanted her to sleep there because I was afraid.
Midas’ bed was now beside ours. “You can’t sleep with the dog,” I laughed.
Ariana teased, “You've replaced us with a dog, haven't you?”
I shrugged. She was mostly right. Midas was to be our transitional object to ease us into the empty nest phase of life like a toy or bunny helps preschoolers say good-bye to their parents when they drop them off.
“I’m ok,” I said. “Go on to your room. Do you want me to come sleep with you downstairs?”
“No,” they said. “We’ll be fine.” There were hugs and kisses all around. And then we fell back into the bedtime rituals we'd had when the girls were little and I tucked them in at night:
"I love you to the moon and back."
"I love you." "No, no, no. I love YOU."
"I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always."
"You're the best." to which the other responded, "No, you're the best!" and then the other: "No, you're the best." Back and forth we went until we were caught up in profuse protestations of love that could hold them secure through the long night.
These were games of love we'd played when they were little that we picked back up now without missing a beat.
Only this time they tucked me in and withdrew.
I slipped under the blankets. The last time I’d been here was with Bill. Now, nothing. Before, I’d been his wife, now I was his widow.
Widow. The word seems to embody what it is—a wide gulf between life and death and a cry of dereliction-- Oh! For me, the word conjures up an old woman bereft of what she had to live for, someone with unkempt gray hair who carefully counts out pennies at the grocery store and looks forward to joining her husband in death. Cats and shawls are also somehow involved, though I don’t know why, in my picture of what a widow is.
Yet here I am 51, blonde, vibrant, at the peak of my career making a professional’s salary, ready for my time now that my daughters are raised. And . . . a widow. You go to bed a wife, you wake up a widow. How can this be?
With the gracious help of Ambien, I slept with the light on, the prayer book and Bible beside me with the tissue box on top, Midas breathing heavily below.
Was I ok to sleep alone, they wondered. As did I. There was comfort in the hotel with them in the next bed; I won’t lie about that. Barb offered to sleep on the floor next to me on a pallet like we used to make up for her when she was little and she woke early and didn’t want to stay in her own bed. She’d come into our room and crawl down in her comfy bedroll and look at her books. This bought us an extra 30 minutes’ sleep in the morning. Sometimes when she got scared at night she came and slept there as well, and we got used to checking to see if she was there when we got up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom. Now she was asking me if I wanted her to sleep there because I was afraid.
Midas’ bed was now beside ours. “You can’t sleep with the dog,” I laughed.
Ariana teased, “You've replaced us with a dog, haven't you?”
I shrugged. She was mostly right. Midas was to be our transitional object to ease us into the empty nest phase of life like a toy or bunny helps preschoolers say good-bye to their parents when they drop them off.
“I’m ok,” I said. “Go on to your room. Do you want me to come sleep with you downstairs?”
“No,” they said. “We’ll be fine.” There were hugs and kisses all around. And then we fell back into the bedtime rituals we'd had when the girls were little and I tucked them in at night:
"I love you to the moon and back."
"I love you." "No, no, no. I love YOU."
"I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always."
"You're the best." to which the other responded, "No, you're the best!" and then the other: "No, you're the best." Back and forth we went until we were caught up in profuse protestations of love that could hold them secure through the long night.
These were games of love we'd played when they were little that we picked back up now without missing a beat.
Only this time they tucked me in and withdrew.
I slipped under the blankets. The last time I’d been here was with Bill. Now, nothing. Before, I’d been his wife, now I was his widow.
Widow. The word seems to embody what it is—a wide gulf between life and death and a cry of dereliction-- Oh! For me, the word conjures up an old woman bereft of what she had to live for, someone with unkempt gray hair who carefully counts out pennies at the grocery store and looks forward to joining her husband in death. Cats and shawls are also somehow involved, though I don’t know why, in my picture of what a widow is.
Yet here I am 51, blonde, vibrant, at the peak of my career making a professional’s salary, ready for my time now that my daughters are raised. And . . . a widow. You go to bed a wife, you wake up a widow. How can this be?
With the gracious help of Ambien, I slept with the light on, the prayer book and Bible beside me with the tissue box on top, Midas breathing heavily below.
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