Today, he's standing outside with his grown son, I stop to exchange a few words, and eventually, he asks, "So, what's your sweetie's name?" Sweetie? I thought he was asking about Rocco, and then it suddenly hit me. My sweetie. He's asking about a significant other. Shit . . . no way around these scenarios. His name is Bob, he died in May. I tell him with a voice that's not my own, with words that shouldn't belong to me, but do, fiercely. "Oh," he says, his voice changes abruptly, clearly not expecting this answer. "Well, he went through the same thing," jerking a thumb toward his son. "His woman left him, and stole his dog, too. . ." shaking his head. I stare at him. Are you fucking kidding me? You honestly think "his woman left him" and adding a stolen dog for effect, is even remotely similar to my husband dying? No, no, no, I scream all of this at him, in my head. . . "Left him" means someone had a choice in the matter, "left him" means he probably will still see his woman, that they might have a chance at getting back together, slim as it may be. It's very possible he'll get his dog back, at the very least. What part of "died" don't you get?!? "Died" means neither of us had a choice in this matter, "died" means there isn't even a slim chance I will ever see my sweetie again, much less, a chance to be with him again . . . .
I don't remember exchanging good-byes, maybe used Rocco as my excuse to continue my walk, but I do remember feeling that it's often easier to not talk to strangers. The widow thing freaks people out, myself included, makes them, us, say strange things. What I just said (or didn't say) to my neighbor was such a dishonor to Bob, to all he was, and all we had, the good, the bad and the ugly, and suddenly I am thinking, I have to tell everyone I meet that not only am I a widow, but my husband was only 44 when he died, and had the most beautiful brown eyes and the silkiest Superman-black hair that I loved to run my fingers through . . he possessed the sharpest wit, a most wicked sense of humor and could infuriate me like nobody could . . . but was the best person I have ever had the honor to know in this life on earth, that he died an awful death that is the stuff of nightmares, but fought his incurable disease like nothing I will ever witness again on this Earth, right till the end, I loved him, still love him, would have taken care of him and his broken body forever, if I had been given the choice. . .
On the rest of my walk I think of how horribly inept the English language is. We say died, and love, and widow, but mean nothing when we say them. To have one word that would sum it all up for me, tell our story, who Bob was, what he meant and still means to me, how he died, would be o-so helpful, for me, for everyone I encounter. But I can't tell his story, our story, to everyone I meet. I will just have to learn to be okay with the fact that most people will never have the honor to learn who my sweetie was. . . and somehow be okay with how very tragic that is.
