After the meeting, I asked her how she was.
\nShe looked well, after all; and it had been a year
\nsince the funeral. The colour was back in her cheeks
\nand in her clothing, so I thought it was all right
\nto ask. She smiled and told me she had been
\nChristmas shopping in Montr\u00e9al and
\nwas having dinner with some friends that evening.
\nBut as she turned away, I heard a sip, an intake
\na breath that wanted to be something else. For
\na moment she glanced back at me, her mouth open;
\nher eyes reddened, moist, fierce.
\nI saw a howl forming; she sighed and smiled.
\nShe went over to join her friends who turned to
\ninclude her. Abruptly she patted one on the hand
\nand turned back to me. It must be pretty hard,
\nI said. It’s as if I’ve stopped making memories,
\nshe said. Joy without memories is too painful.
\nI want to scream, but I can’t; so I keep talking.
\nAt least that’s what I understood, but she was still
\ntalking to her friends, and I was helpless watching.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
A huge percentage of older people are widows. Grief underlies everything they do. (#1004) Continue reading