12.7.25
There is a steady rain falling this morning as I find myself wide awake a little after four o’clock. Behind the clouds the moon shines brightly, casting a ghostly illumination over everything. Despite the power being off, there is enough light for me to make my way into the living room where I kindle a fire in the wood stove and put the kettle on. Here and there candles glow, bringing a warmth to the room even before the heat of the fire reaches me. It is a peaceful start to the day.
Yesterday, I once again took a huge step forward, albeit on legs that frequently felt rather wobbly. The little truck was packed with totes and boxes, bags and bins containing all the soaps and lotions and other wares I planned to put on display at the big Christmas bazaar in John Day. Just like when I went to my first bazaar in Condon last month, the tears flowed freely as I drove slowly down the driveway. Touching the picture of my dearest that I have taped to my sun visor, I repeated over and over again, “We can do this. We can do this Matey.”. At the top of the driveway, I stopped and took a huge breath. Was I ready for this? “Yes,” I told myself, touching Darrell’s smiling face again, “We can do this.” I resolutely turned onto the paved road and began my morning’s journey. It would be alright.
Last Sunday, I loaded our bull Monte into the stock trailer and hauled him to the auction yard in Madras, a journey that usually takes about three hours. That morning however, with icy roads greeting me once I left the river and started climbing in elevation, the journey slowed considerably, adding an additional hour onto the trip. It was another first for me. Oh, loading an animal in the trailer by myself, even a big bull like Monte, was not an issue, it was the drive without my trusty co-pilot by my side that frequently brought the ubiquitous tears to my eyes. Yet I did it.
There are so many things that hit you hard when you least expect it after you lose your soulmate. Little things that for so many years you took for granted. Coming back from milking Heidi, as I pull the four-wheeler bearing the milker up to the garden path, I glance at the front door half expecting… no, hoping… it will open, and my dearest will be there to carry the heavy milker into the house for me. I sit for a moment, the tears rolling down my cheeks, before resolutely telling myself, “You can do this Rose, you can do this!” In the past, as Darrell would carry the milker into the house for me while I held open our front door, I would say “Thank you Matey!” With a smile he would reply, “Why do you thank me? This is my job!” Oh, what I would not give to hear those words again.
Yesterday at the bazaar, my pockets full of tissues that I knew I would need, I prepared myself to be overwhelmed with warm hugs, well wishes and teary eyes. I was indeed overwhelmed. The compassion, the love and warmth that was showered on me by so many people was beyond measure. People I knew who just gave me a tight, warm hug without a word being spoken, conveyed silently how much they had been thinking of me. Strangers who somehow knew of my loss, reached out a hand to take mine as they gently spoke words of condolence. Yes, the tears flowed frequently, but oh my goodness, what warmth I felt from this community.
Amongst all these fine folk who took the time to come and see me, amongst all the comforting hugs I received, I perceived a subtle difference at times. From those who had lost loved ones such as mothers or fathers, brothers or sisters, their hugs were warm and reassuring, their words gentle and encouraging, but then there were other hugs. The hugs from those who had lost their life partners too. As I found myself enveloped in their arms, the strength of their hug touched my soul. They did not have to speak, for in their tight clasp I felt all their grief, their understanding of what it is like to lose their husband, their soul mate, their best friend. They knew. As a tiny, very elderly lady I have never met before grasped my hand across my table, apparently hearing that I had recently lost my dearest love, she did not say a single word, yet in her eyes, in the grip of her hand, I knew she knew.
Despite how easily words can blossom in front of me on a page when the desire to write hits, I have always had a hard time expressing spoken words to those who have lost a loved one. Instead, I give them a warm hug, hoping that hug tells them what words sometimes cannot fully convey. Those hugs I have given have always come from my heart, but now, yes, now I know there will sometimes be a difference in my hugs.
For yesterday something happened. I felt The Widow’s Touch. Those arms that wrapped around me and clasped me so tightly, the pain I saw in the eyes that looked into mine, the understanding that passed between us without a word being spoken. Yes, yesterday I felt The Widow’s Touch. Those women gave me strength although they may not know it. They showed me that life does and can go on. The pain never, ever leaves, but it might soften slightly as time passes.
I have joined a club, one that none willingly would wish to join, but in this club, I know I will find the strength to go on. For yes, my friends, I have now felt The Widow’s Touch.
