I am a widow

For the first time, I am okay with being called a widow.

At first I couldn’t accept it. My heart broke each time I had to explain to people that he was no more, especially those who hadn’t seen us for a while and missed the news. Some would even call his number to confirm the news for themselves. 

Imagine receiving a call a year after a spouses passing from a friend who's been out of touch and having to tell all over again the tormenting tale. Then comes the explaining whenever they don't understand the diagnosis. That's what doctors do. But I can't blame them, he was their friend, I am usually patient with them. Oh that's funny. No, really it is. Patient.

We were practically joined at the hip. We were always together. Even a short trip to buy bread or taking the rubbish to the vuil huis (rubbish house) in our complex was almost never just a trip for one. Then one blink; I am a widow.

But! One of the great things about this title; it defines me as a lover. It tells the world that I love fiercely. That I hold it down to the wire. This should make me proud, shouldn’t it?

Yet another thing. I get to close the book. For those who’ve been divorced like myself know the roller coaster of uncertainty that comes with ending a marriage. The constant regret, fear, pain, then hope; mostly false hope. So this time there’s definite certainty. Closure. Yes it hurts but the book is definitely closed, which is bittersweet because of the memories left behind.