But you still died.
I don’t understand.
How something could change so momentously.
While i was watching.
I didn’t blink.
I didn’t look away.
But from one moment to the next… you were gone.
You left me. And i am alone, alone, alone… i am half of a person.
How could the world change so much. When i was looking right at it.
i don’t understand.
She’s a plain woman who used to be pretty.
There is ten months of grey in her hair, and a year’s comfort food on her hips, and she does not care. She doesn’t wear make up any more.
She’s a Northerner, though she doesn’t always sound it, tending to tune in to the accents around her, or revert to the posher tones learned from a father who will always be an ‘offcomer’, no matter how long he lives here.
She’s never been much for jewellery, although she has some that she loves. She doesn’t wear it any more. Her husband’s cross lives around her neck, and the ring he put on her finger is now matched by the one she took from his. She swapped it for her hair. Her long, thick hair that he loved. It took long minutes to hack through the ponytail, and she buried it with him. Her hair was beautiful and she doesn’t want that. Doesn’t want to be attractive. Doesn’t want anyone to look at her and think thoughts that belong only in her husband’s head.
She walks a lot, but not with any recognisable gait – it varies with her mood. Faster towards the cemetery and slower back to the place that is ‘home’ by virtue of the memories it holds. ‘Home is where the heart is’, and she doesn’t know that location any more. Did she bury it with him, or is it spread among the places they have been?
Her eyes are brown behind the glasses she constantly pushes up on top of her head, and they still smile easily. She is grief-stricken, but not depressed. Depression was being trapped in a miserable marriage for over a decade. Her husband saved her, and she won’t waste his gift. She’d rather be his widow than anyone else’s wife.