Well, not really, but I believe my meaning is clear.
Nevertheless, I suddenly found this word thrust upon me, attaching itself firmly to my person. I would henceforth be identified as “Widow.” But the word itself felt wrong, and it formed awkwardly in my mouth when I’d try to speak it. I did not feel like what I understood this word to mean.
Everyone around me could see it, too. They saw the dark cloud descend around me – a shroud of sadness and gloom. Was this the end of the person they once knew?
They held all the expectations culturally associated with this word. They expected that I would be sad and wear black for a while, and that I would need space, probably about a year or so, to sort things out. After that I would be back to my normal self again, and then we could pick up where we left off.
They responded to these expectations rather than to me. They spoke softly with well-chosen words, careful not to upset me or, heaven forbid, make me cry. They didn’t want to say or do something that would remind me of this thing I now was. Like I could forget. They went back to their lives and to their husbands, and allowed me space to learn how to be alone, just like our culture expects of them.
They seemed to watch from a distance, curiously waiting to see what would happen to me now, as if I was at the mercy of my situation.
Sadly, I get it – who really wants to be around all that gloomy awkwardness? I certainly don’t.
So I decided to toss that old bad penny.
I refused to let a word – that word – shape me, to decide who I am to become after the trauma of losing my soul mate. Like an ugly old t-shirt, I will alter it; I will make it fit me. I get to decide what Widow looks like on me.
At first Widow looked like Student. I went back to college full time, surrounded by my juniors who were full of life and hope. I witnessed the continuance of life.
After that, Widow looked like Entrepreneur. I started sewing again, and I made myself a quilt from some of Rod’s (many) t-shirts. I thought there might be other widows who would appreciate such a gift for themselves, so I opened up an online store. I rediscovered creativity and productivity.
Today Widow looks like Writer. Life is made up of stories, and every story is important – even mine. I am discovering my unique place in the universe.
What will Widow look like for me next? I can’t say. But I do know it will continue to change and evolve as time moves forward. And I will continue to choose what Widow looks like on me.