© Danna Shirley
Downsizing to one . . .
The first
time I went grocery shopping by myself as a widow, I walked the aisles pushing
my basket crying every step of the way. I looked at the ‘family’ packages of
food, the bulk items, even a can of green beans would be too much for just me.
Every item on the shelf screamed that I was now alone. I’m sure people were
looking at me pitifully.
Then a friend
saw me crying. Kay came up and put her arms around me. I dropped my head on her
shoulder. She held me tightly and let me cry right there in the middle of Super
Wal-Mart. I was overwhelmed with this simple task of buying food for one.
Five
years later . . .
I came
home after lunch with ‘the girls’ on a recent Sunday afternoon. It was a
particularly melancholy time for me and I wrote the following story from an
aching heart . . .
WIDOW’S ROW
It’s not a place where I wanted to be identified. I would much
rather still be seated with my peers in the “single women’s section” or maybe
with the “youth” (aha, that was long, long ago). I would love to be remembered
as a “young married” or even a “middle married,” but alas, I have graduated to
Widow’s Row and I’m seated with Lavern and Juanita and Pat and Mildred.
We all had long marriages, at least thirty years or more;
some went through long illnesses with their husbands. I, however, went through
no time at all. Ron was with me one night and gone the next morning. Now I sit
on Widow’s Row with Lavern and Juanita and Pat and Mildred.
We go to lunch after church sometimes. As families walk
into the restaurant and are seated comfortably around us, we hear their
laughter and see their happy faces; husbands and wives, little boys and girls,
happy to be together.
Yes, we sit and talk, we eat and comment on our delicious
sweet potato casserole or how the coleslaw is too mayonnaise-y. Mildred says
her family used to rave about her vegetables and Juanita asks when we’re all
invited over so she can prove it.
We reminisce of how we used to cook big meals for our
families but now it is so tiring to cook for just one—it’s no fun at all!
We get our doggie bags so we’ll have something to eat for
dinner later that evening.
Next Sunday arrives and we meet and greet each other once
again. We sing and lift our voices on high with praises unto God . . . and we
sit on Widow’s Row.
I
don’t like to cook for one. I don’t really want to ever cook again.
LIFE TO CONSIDER . . .
After
reading this chapter, I will reflect on the author’s heartache and experience
as a widow and determine to . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment