Inner Dialog

Tell me something about yourself.

I’m a widow.

Tell me something else.

Widowhood colors everything I think, feel, see, experience. It is all I know anymore.

Tell me something else anyway.

... Alright:

I shave my legs every day. Just a quick swipe with the blade, no precision work required, both legs done in less than 2 minutes. Whatever spot I miss today I’ll likely hit tomorrow. Except I always seem to miss three hairs near my ankle and another three under my knee. About once a month I see those six really long hairs and wonder how I can consistently miss those same spots every single day.

I didn’t used to shave every day. Before I married I shaved nearly every day, but who was gonna notice if I missed a day or three except me? And what did I care? If I wasn’t shaving I was feeling pretty low and figured I could use some time off from grooming. Once I was married I made a point to shave every day so I’d be smooth and soft for my husband to caress. The first year after he died I continued to shave every day. Now I’m back to shaving nearly every day unless I’m having a bad day, or set of days. If you want to know how I’m really feeling, run your hand over my leg. My legs don’t lie.

Tell me something else. Tell me something you believe.

… Alright:

I haven’t believed in God since I was a pre-teen. I spent years, well into my twenties, wanting to have faith. It seemed easier, somehow, to believe in God. To believe that there was someone who always loved you, always had faith in you, would always forgive you if you really meant it, and would know when you really did mean it. Life would still be difficult but you’d always have that love and understanding behind you. I never could find it in me to make that leap. Instead, I believed in The Universe. Everything happened for a reason. Didn’t get that job you wanted? The Universe had a better fit out there for you. Wrecked your car? The Universe would provide you a life lesson that was more valuable than the dollar amount of your car.

Then my husband died.

He didn’t die for a reason. He died because he ate high fat foods and never saw a cardiologist. He died because we all die. He died because the thing he feared most was his mortality which he wouldn’t face, thus he ran straight into the arms of his death.

So now I believe that things just happen. No reason. No added benefit to your life. My life can’t be made better from this. My life may not be worse but it will be different. I suppose it’s what I make it.

If you didn’t get that job you wanted it isn’t The Universe providing you a better fit but yourself that provides the better fit. And sometimes there isn’t enough to be pulled from the disappointment but to go on and say “Now life will be different.”

Tell me something that doesn’t involve your husband.

Shit.

… Alright:

When I was three years old my family bought me a white, miniature poodle named Gigi. I would carry her around with my hand on my hip, her head on one side, her body hanging down the back. Basically I carried her by her neck. She never struggled, never bit, never scratched. She let me carry her on my hip by her neck. My mother still has the pictures in an album somewhere.

Do you remember doing this?

No. But I do have memories of remembering it. I remember thinking “I have to remember this because the adults find it so funny.” I wanted to know if I'd find it funny as an adult. I’ve forgotten it anyway.

Did you ever tell Steve this story?

He heard it when he saw the pictures at my mother’s house.

But the story doesn’t bring up memories of Steve or of being a widow?

No.

Well, there you go.

What does that mean?

Not everything is colored in the black of widowhood. You have one memory that is colored in the white fluffiness of Gigi. Go find more.

… Oh go fuck yourself.