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This piece was written after my dear husband, Shalom, died. He was only 54, and I was 43 with our children aged only 10 and 7. We had enjoyed eleven short years together.
THE WIDOW
by Shirley Friedman
People come and sit
around
to try and keep me
cool
and calm
and collected.
Everybody takes my hand
to express the sorrow that they feel.
No-one wants to meet my eyes
and see the tears they've resurrected
the tears I try to hide
inside
but still they rise
and fall
against my will.
My children hurt me with
their words
those words so innocent and unintended.
They agonise "Don't cry!"
but I
can't stop
this awful aching pain.
I wear his watch
his ring
reluctant to relinquish what has ended
there are too many precious memories
alive
and burning in my brain.
The hours, the days, the
weeks go by
and still my world
is full
of empty spaces.
The world that not so long ago
was filled with life
and love
right to the brim.
I walk around and find myself
looking
in other people's faces
searching,
searching desperately
in hopes
somehow
I'll catch a glimpse of him.
Sometimes I wake at night
amid those lonely
empty hours of silence.
It's then I really cry
to try
and ease the anguish in
my heart.
I reach out with my mind
into the void
to seek his presence
and suddenly I realise
that we are finally
and irrevocably
apart.