What You Don’t Want to Know
Originally published on Dr. Walsh’s website at https://drlauralwalsh.com/blog/what-you-dont-want-to-know
Have you ever sat too close to a fire? Warmth ticks up until the heat becomes a yellow warning. The surface temperature of your skin puts you on notice: leave now or be charred. What if you couldn’t move away? This radius threatens to martyr you. Most heed and never find out what happens next. In grief, your feet are held to the flame. Your only solace is skittering along the fire’s ringed circumference.
Widowhood is a house on fire. It all eventually burns down but this Sisyphean travail reincarnates you each morning. Seen only through the smokey window, this widow represents our worst nightmares. A venerated pariah one cannot even imagine, and so does not.
After my wife died, I stayed with my sister-in-law for almost two weeks. I could only endure visitor status in our home. Before long, I came to miss the space we shared. No place on earth felt restful but at least I would be closer to my wife. I packed up our dogs and moved home. Like the first licks of flame, trepidation ignited my thoughts. Was I going back too soon? I was still so fragile; would this cauterize or blister? Taking our exit from the highway, I decided I was brave.
Our home is a sacred space — it’s where my wife took her last breath. We loved this house. She always said we were returning it to its mid century modern glory. We invested in our sprawling ranch, choosing a section of the space and renovating by season. Last summer, we landscaped the front; this summer, a city oasis for the back. We hauled every tree, bush and flower home ourselves. Past season’s flora has grown so much, there’s no way I could move them now.
The house is filled with a collection we built together. My wife’s prized pieces of Scandinavian furniture, so lovingly restored by her own hands, gather dust I’m too exhausted to clean. It’s not exactly haunted here but she’s around every corner like a promise. Her voice, a hymn, resonates just out of earshot like the ending of a song. Old bills stuffed into drawers or the picture she hung in the hallway, evidence of her warm touch is slowly erased, written over by my fingers. She’s still here and so very gone.
Living in our house alone makes me a keeper. I’ve become the lone custodian, the remaining lady of the house. This singular responsibility is a heavy thing. I must take on the remembering where it was once split in two. Neglect of simple chores becomes my hair shirt; she wouldn’t want it this way. Without her wise counsel, it’s difficult to trust my own judgement.
There is a sort of weary fortitude that comes from this immersion. I am enduring the fevered sadness of this kindled environment. The everyday experience is inescapable; there is no break from grief. It chokes my pores and becomes my sarcophagus, encasing the person I used to be. I’m jealous of the glowing, free spirited woman my wife embraces in pictures on the fridge. I want to stop the calamity that will etch the corners of my barely younger eyes. She radiates reinforced love as I reflect, a dulled mirror image. Who am I now?
The mail still brings my wife credit card offers and sales announcements. A change, the daily delivery brings hints of tragedy addressed to the Estate of. She’s no longer a good credit risk. Her investments lose value without her. In a basket next to the washer, her clothes retain a living scent. A cruel tease as the mingling aroma of her skin mixed with lotion and cologne are now extinct. A perfumed heirloom, I can’t wash them now.
And what to do with our things? A basement chock full of nothing and everything. Fingering through a box, I think that was hers but now, everything is mine. This knowledge settles like cold fat, a nauseating lump burns my stomach. There’s too much stuff, we had both agreed. Now a hundred years have passed and everything becomes an ancient artifact.
I managed to keep the fish alive. Do the dogs miss her? Have they retained recognition of her voice or her smell? Are they front door sentries, listening for the muted sound of her car pulling in the driveway? With every outing, they anticipate I too will be gone forever. They throw a party every time I return home, no matter how long I’ve been away. Their joy signals relief; they’ll have more time with me. These creatures always understood how inevitably loss looms. The tail thumps: So good to see you again.
Night brings the best and the worst of it. I keep up our bedtime rituals and settle into our king size bed. My body pillow effigy; a widow’s best friend. A makeshift offreda on the headboard shelf. Framed pictures of us, the last gift you gave me, and the necklace you died wearing — these carbonized totems form a shrine to our relationship. I kiss your rings. I miss you. I love you.
