Day three back to work. I am not crumpled up in a ball on the floor unable to function. I am not laying in my bed trying to convince myself that there’s a world worth waking up for. I am sitting on my porch, dogs fed, kitten cuddled, coffee in hand, listening to the birds. Yet, the idea of walking up those stairs to stare at a computer screen and focus my mind on the details of work leaves me feeling doubtful and restless. I prefer days that require nothing more of me than visiting my flowers, checking the soil, asking “how are you doing today Marigolds and verbena”. I prefer days where I can watch the carefully orchestrated dance of the bumblebees as they move through the garden. Today I must go sit in that room where I sat, ordinarily oblivious to the things that would come, all the while knowing that I was sitting in that room, in that chair, staring at that computer when the doorbell rang. Alas, time soldiers on even in the face of tragedy. I can sit at that desk, in that room where I sat, exactly as I have done a million days before, but I will know it is no longer safe to assume that tragedy won’t stand on the other side of my door before sounding it’s arrival with the ringing of the doorbell. Time is sort of ruthless that way. The universe moves through the day carrying with it all the things that will happen, like a breeze, carrying with it the promise of a storm. Is it already written? I don’t fucking know. What I do know is that in 36 minutes I will be expected to be logged into a computer looking through emails, reading through the details of the day, taking in information and spitting out decisions because the living still live and the decisions must be made and the ones that I make while sitting in my chair in that room will impact people in the world I don’t even know.
My husband killed himself. That is not ordinary. I must go sit in that chair in that room and do ordinary things while inside I feel….well, not ordinary anymore. Nothing will ever be ordinary ever again.
Did you know the marigolds we, he and I, seeded last year and which barely made it through the summer, re-seeded themselves this year. I didn’t even know they were growing in the raised garden bed he built for me because I couldn’t bring myself to visit that particular garden this spring. Then one day I couldn’t not notice the collection of bright orange flowers standing tall on display. Marigolds are not perennials. I think he sent them back for me. Not even that, my friend, is ordinary.
Becoming a Widow 