Cheers to 55

 

Monday, October 7^th was my 55^th birthday.  I awoke feeling a wee bit melancholy.  I longed for my mother and Walter, wishing I could talk to them, to hold them in my arms.  I decided to take flowers to the cemetery and reflect on memories of them, of what has transpired since their passing, Mom in 2005 and Walter in 2019.  Those thoughts helped lift the melancholy and filled my soul with such gratitude for what has transpired over the years.    

When I returned home, I went through the multitude of messages on my social media, in my emails, and through text messages.  Each name I saw, I’d reminisce on moments shared and how they fit into this life of mine - from the past, the present, through acquaintances, or are family.  My heart filled with emotions, such love and appreciation.

There are more years behind me now than there are ahead.  Looking at the years gone by, there's been good.  There’s been bad. There's been happy.  There’s been sad. From the highs to the lows and back. I look at the constants throughout. Family. Friends. Love. Support. Laughter and tears. Welcoming the new, and tearful goodbyes. Watching my children grow up to become such wonderful men. And holding precious grandchildren in my arms.

It may not be a life exciting enough to be worthy of a movie, but damn, I am happy to own my story. Those years not only made me who I am but allowed me to accrue beautiful memories and fill my life with wonderful people.  

I don’t quite know how many chapters I have left, nor what happens in my story.  But what I do know is that between now and the last page, I plan to fill each page with as much vim, vigor and vitality as I can.  

Cheers to 55!

 

SHE

She is they.

She is ze.

 She is them.

She is we.

 She is you.

She is me.

 

She is your friend,

Your sister,

your cousin,

 your teacher.

 

She is a stranger.

Your aunt,

your boss,

your preacher.

 

She is many voices

Choked back by tears

of criticism

of humiliation.

 

She can’t even whisper

Silenced from fear.

of rejection

of retaliation.

 

 She is the phoenix

Risen from the flame.

Left in the ashes

Sorrow and shame.

 

 She is the woman

Who no one will tame.

The past behind.

The future she claims.

 

 She is the C.E.O.

in power suit and heels.

She is the grandma

who makes the best meals.

 

She is the celebrity

you would love to meet.

She is the destitute 

living on the street.

 

She is the small child

cowered in fear.

She is the woman

you  see in the mirror. 

 She is they.

She is ze.

 She is them.

She is we.

 She is you.

She is me.

 

BACs of fault

 To the bullies

Who joined in on the torment…

...you’re forgiven

...you were just a child.

To the bullies

Who poked, prodded, and hit …

…you’re forgiven

…but understand what you did.

To the bullies

who enjoyed their sorrow and tears…

…you’re forgiven

 

…hope the child healed from the pain.

To the adults

Who knew it was happening….

...it’s your fault

…you could have stopped it.

To the adults

Who didn’t stop the bullying…

…it’s your fault

…your inaction enabled them.

To the adults

Who did nothing…

…it’s your fault

… you should have stopped the abuse.

 To the child

Who was shunned by their peers…

…it’s not your fault

…kids can be mean.

To the child

who was teased, mauled, abused…

...it’s not your fault

...you didn’t deserve it.

To the child

Whose innocence was tarnished…

…it’s not your fault

…don’t let them define you.

 

…dig deep into the rubble of your heart, find your light and shine.

  

The Trunk

In our family “the trunk” is a metaphor for the unspoken.  Be it a wrongdoing, an embarrassment, a taboo, or a secret, it’s best to “just put it in the trunk” where it’s hidden, safe and sound; to be forgotten, never to be spoken of again.  

In my mind’s eye, the trunk is old, like a large steamer trunk that my grandparents would have brought over from the old country.  Held in a cold, stone chamber, this worn wooden box, wearing marks from a long, hard voyage’ sits in the center on the cold, wet floor.  Its rusty metal clasps hold the lid hiding its contents.  Inside, it’s dark, damp, deep.  An ominous vibe oozing from cracks and crevices.  Secrets quietly humming, anxiously waiting to be released. 

The protectors guarding the trunk vary, depending on when one enters the chamber.  Dressed in long dark hooded robes, the elders have inherited the duty to guard the trunk and all it contains.  Should those approaching speak to the guards, they would be urged to leave, to never look back as the past is best left where it lay. 

Those entering the chamber with their burden, head hung low, dragging their bare feet across the cold stone floor must face the guards. With wisdom, compassion, understanding, and little judgement, the heavy lid is lifted just enough to slip the burden inside, and ensuring those inside do not escape.  Although the unspoken is left behind, the bearer carries the weight of guilt, of shame, pushing it deep inside their soul, taking it to their grave.

Noone could ever guess the number of contents inside the old trunk.  Some so deep, hidden for generations, lost to time.  At the changing of the guard, knowledge of some contents may be shared with the new as the old step away.  But more often, what’s known of the contents is taken with them to their grave, absorbed into the earth.

There are many secrets carefully laid deep inside, with the intent to stay within its walls for eternity.  Those are protected by the guards with fortitude. No matter what one came armed with, they would be turned away with warning to never question again.

 On occasion, if approached with the right information; a physical clue, a flicker of a memory sharp enough to carry details; or overheard whisperings as a child; the seeker may be permitted a mere, yet distant, glimpse of one of its contents.  A hypothetical scenario, a flimsy clue to follow, or if extremely lucky, a confirmation.  Enough to satisfy the need to know, and maybe, but not always, just enough to stop any further inquiries. 

Not all secrets are intended to be kept in the trunk indefinitely.  The protectors ensuring the trunk is a safe place until ready to be released.  When the occasion arises, the heavy lid is opened ever so slightly for the unspoken to be carefully removed from its resting place.  The weight of it lifted as it meets the light, allowing it to take shape, fly with the breeze, sharing its message, then dissipate into the atmosphere.    

Through the years, the decades, the generations, the use of the trunk has gradually changed.  As culture, as society, as mindsets have changed, the need for it has lessened. Judgement, ostracism, disdain, progressively replaced by understanding, acceptance, compassion. Another choice emerged, to “kiss it, bless it, and let it go.”  A difficult choice to make at first, but eases with time.  The weight of the burden lifted into the light instead of a heavy heart.  The protectors stand guard of the trunk, as the trunk will always remain.  Although they mourn for those who hadn’t such opportunity; they quietly cheer on the new generations, pleased to see that what was once unspoken, can be. 

Where do I Feel Safe?

 

ONE OF Nine Questions for Journaling and Introspection – Where do I Feel Safe

@vanessaandheriphone

 I was watching a video by Vanessa Laterza on TikTok called Nine Questions where she poses nine questions to inspire journaling and introspection.

Out of the nine questions, one really stood out as a topic to explore.  The question at first seemed simple enough to answer.  But when thinking of the response, I found it was a much more complex question.  One that I needed to dig deep and explore.  The question was “Where do I Feel Safe?”

When I thought of the question, the first thing that came to mind was ‘in Walter’s arms.’  Immediately I felt a knot in my throat and the walls of my chest tighten around my heart, squeezing all the air out of my lungs.  Then followed emotions encircling me like a cyclone. I couldn’t answer “where do I feel safe”.  Thoughts swirled around me, the intensity uprooting questions I needed to explore.

I first tried to think back to moments where I could honestly say that I truly felt safe.  I suppose it was before I learned about life and what kinds of dangers can lurk in the shadows.  Back to when movies monsters and the boogey man under the bed were what nightmares were made of.  If I woke up from a bad dream, I knew I’d be safe with Mom and Dad.  They were only across the hall from my room. 

Like yesterday, I can easily recall those nights.  First, I’d have to gather the courage to crawl out from underneath my blankets, then prepare to make the mad dash from my bed, out the door, across the hall to my parents’ room, and hop up on their bed.  My eyes would scan the dark room, looking for potential danger.  Could there be a monster in that corner, peeking at me through the crack between the closet doors, or would hands reach out from under my bed?  I’d create an escape plan, from where to place my feet on the floor to reduce the chance of being grabbed.  Next, take a few deep breaths, gather up the courage, then make the mad dash, jumping off the bed onto the area rug, then run across the cold hardwood floor out my door, across the hall and scramble all the way up on my parents’ bed, crawling over Mom to snuggle in between them.  I could then breathe a sigh of relief, knowing that I was safe, no monster or boogey man would ever chance stepping near us.

As I grew, my small world grew.  From the perimeters of my neighborhood, to encompass the world beyond my parents’ purview.  Dangers existed beyond the imaginary monsters under my bed. Boogey men were real, not just those which lived in our TV.  From a child growing into adulthood, I learned that danger came in many forms: people, actions, words.  Malice incites fear and insecurity.

Since reading the question “where do I feel safe”, I ‘ve spent considerable time trying to scan through the decades, searching for another moment which conjures a sense of feeling safe.  There may be small snippets throughout the years, but nothing exceptional, nor complete.  Except for my time with Walter.

I remember when Walter and I first met, and how when he first put his arms around me for our first dance.  He gently enveloped me, emanating such a sense of security.  To describe it would be a protective, calming strength.  As our relationship grew, the more we shared not just time together, but thoughts, worries and insecurities.  Trust quickly built – solid, supportive, judgement-free.  The days where I felt weak, vulnerable, spent; I just needed to hear his calming voice, even if only over the phone, I could feel the stress, that pressure in my chest wane as he comforted me.

Through Walter, I learned how to be completely vulnerable.  So freeing.  I could be as silly as I wanted, could bare all, body,  mind, and soul, knowing that he accepted every bit of me without judgement, and with love.  I knew without a doubt that he would always protect me, comfort me, encourage me.  Walter would be there to scare away the monsters;  pick me up if I fell, brush off any negativity and offer his shoulder to lean on so I could carry on.

After his death, there huge void in my chest, the spot he once filled.  My comfort, my security gone with his last breath, leaving me weak, vulnerable.  Over time, as I worked through my grief, step by step, the overwhelming void started to shrink as it gradually filled with memories of him, of us.  With each flip of the page on the calendar, my strength grew, creating a new sense of self.  As months turned to years, I’ve worked to build a solid foundation for myself.  Using Walter’s words, I try to encourage, comfort, and reassure myself.  I use those softer words to be kinder, less judgmental.  

Will I ever feel safe within another’s arms?  I really couldn’t say, as I have no idea what the future holds.  What I do know is that I've developed a desire to experience, to explore.  To accept with grace and enjoy what fate has to offer.    

The emotion and fluster caused by the question “where do I feel safe” has waned with each word I write.  Each sentence brought me closer to my answer.  I am strong. I am brave.  I strive to be true, be vulnerable, yet find the balance to feel safe, secure, and confident in myself.  I can scare away the monsters from under my own bed. 

Where do I feel safe?  The answer is within me. 

April 8, 2024

Memories of Mom and Christmas

I’m not certain why, but this holiday season, I’ve been filled with fervent sentiment and emotions. The intensity grows with each pulse of my heart, and a yearning rises like a tightening in my throat as I go through the motions of Christmas preparation. Memories of loved ones; and images of past Christmases dance in my head, bringing me joy entwined with longing for those who are no longer with us.

I didn’t have opportunity to spend many Christmas mornings with Walter, only one in the eight years we had. He would fly home to Nova Scotia so he could spend the holidays with his mother, children and grandson, Jase. But we did our best to spend it together across the miles. Texts, calls and Skype video calls at 7:00 pm. The one Christmas we spent together ended up being his last, little did we know. We enjoyed the togetherness. I’ll always cherish the memories. Like he and Dad, sitting together, sipping coffee, chatting away like Waldorf and Statler from the Muppets, up in the balcony, watching our antics, shaking their heads and chuckling at us. He’s been gone four years. Some days it feels much longer, yet I can recall a memory which can feel just like yesterday. I’m grateful to have many from the years we had together.

The holiday season always reminds me of my mother. It was her favorite time of the year and she embraced every tradition with a passion. She’s been gone 18 years and I strive to carry on with those traditions. Memories come to my mind with each action. Some connected to the activity at hand, and others just appear. Each lovingly welcomed and savored. I miss her and think of her often. But this year, I’m missing her immensely, so much that I’ve found my eyes well up at times, bringing a moment of melancholy so strong that I have to consciously tell myself to shake it off. Or ‘put some starch in that backbone’, like my Auntie Lil would say. Once recovered from the sense of sadness, I can enjoy my memories of long ago.

Our tree was decorated with colorful ornaments, carefully removed from their box and hung with such precision. Delicate glass bells, silver with green detail. Gold teardrops. Handblown, mercury glass balls, some with starburst insets, others with glitter. Silver tinsel, placed one at a time, ever so delicately. An angel with gold wings and halo sitting atop the tree, guarding what lies underneath. A wreath with gold bells on the front door. Christmas cards hung on the entryway divider bookshelf.

Christmas baking was a beloved ritual with our mom. A stack of Christmas albums, filled with classics by Burl Ives, Judy Garland, Bing Crosby, Julie Andrews; playing on the console stereo in the living room. Ronco presents A Christmas Present laid open atop with the Santa’s Village pop-up proudly displayed. My brother and I peering into the windows of Santa’s workshop, and carefully trying not to touch the reindeer or trees. The aroma of freshly baked treats wafting from the kitchen, practically calling us to come taste. Mom singing along to the music as she stirs the ingredients in her large white Stoneware mixing bowl, and us eager to help - and maybe sneak a taste of cookie dough.

My childhood excitement waking up Christmas morning. I can almost feel my bare feet touching the floor as I rush to the living room with my brother, Michael, to see what Santa put in our stockings. Our smiles visible in the meticulously placed tinsel which draped our tree. Mom and Dad joining us in discovering what lay underneath the colorful wrapping of each gift, one at a time to allow us to savor the moment. The tv in the background playing the cartoons we’d only see on Christmas Day. Davey and Goliath, Christmas Is with Benji and Waldo, The Remarkable Rocket, The Happy Prince. My parents watching us play as they sit and enjoy the morning before family festivities would begin.

The family gathering at Auntie Ida’s home. A kitchen filled with adults, gathered around the table with music playing in the background; and the children playing together in the living room with the Christmas movies on tv. The reflection of the tree lights across the screen. Turkey, cabbage rolls, perogies, and all the fixings for a delicious Christmas meal. Sweet treats, laughter, love. I can close my eyes and see Mom with my aunties Ida and Lil sitting with their cups of Sanka. Laughing and talking, hands gesturing as if they aided in the telling of the stories. A trait which I’ve inherited. Auntie Ida with her painted nails and her elegant hands moving so gracefully with a cigarette – the ash continuing to grow, but never falling off. Auntie Lil’s hearty laugh, coming deep from within. A genuine sound of happiness, contagious and uplifting. Mom, the little sister giggling at their stories, and watching them in admiration. My older cousins, who I looked up to, joining around the table. The next generation. Watching them from the door, their body language, their laughs, so much like their elders.

Cherished as much as my childhood memories, are those of my mom as a grandmother. The mere existence of Jordan and Jared made her world brighter. Her excitement to see their faces Christmas morning equaled theirs. My boys opening their gifts, one at a time, just like we did. Each gift was shown to their grandparents with pride. My dad sitting in his recliner enjoying the entertainment they provided. The kids helping my mom open her presents, sharing the moment together. Cousins Pat and George joining us for dinner, then playing family games. Then we adults would relax and watch the boys play until they gradually tired out. The togetherness of family so treasured.

I know times have changed and so has Christmas for many. Busy lives, stressful and strapped for time or cash. Some shun the commercialism, and some embrace the HGTV Christmas decoration trends of the year. I’m fortunate to look back on Christmases long ago with such wonderful memories, and tried to create ones for my children, with help and guidance from my mom. She taught me to shift the focus from fret to festivity. She showed me that it wasn’t about spending ungodly amounts of money on the newest trends or copious amounts of presents. It was about simple traditions, togetherness, and love. And I will continue to carry those values and traditions forward with love and gratitude in my heart.

Thanks Mom. I love you forever. 

Moving forward. How do you know if you're ready?

 Moving forward.  How do you know if you're ready?

After losing a spouse, the thought of life without them is overwhelming. The confidante who helped you navigate the unknown isn’t there. The one whose arms around you provided comfort, is gone. You’re faced with an all-encompassing grief. Logically you know that one day you’ll get to the ‘moving forward’ part of the process. But how do you know if you’ve finished mourning? How long does that take? How do you know if you’re ready? If only there was a litmus test.

One must go through the grief process, not around it. Experts say there are five stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Although for every loss, we experience each stage, they present themselves differently, from intensity to length. For me, I had nine months to ‘prepare’ or maybe ‘brace’ myself before he died. We tried to savor the time we had left, to experience joy, laughter, and happiness. But no matter what we did, we could feel the dark cloud of impending doom form, a gloomy shadow following us, getting closer and closer, just waiting to consume him. All the color around us faded as life drained from his body. No length of time, nor amount of preparation could prepare me for that moment.

At the end of his Cancer journey, my journey of grief began. The intensity of the pain matched the intensity of our love. A deluge of emotions enveloped me like a whirlpool, pulling me into the dark, cold depths of pain. Waves of emotion appeared without notice. Some with a crash shaking my soul, my very foundation. Others are like a ripple, slowly enveloping my thoughts. My anchor was the man I mourned. I was adrift in a sea of heartache.

I needed to feel the pain, feel the reality, soak in it. The cries from my heavy, broken heart echoed in my hollow chest. Normality was the air I breathed without thought, was gone. Gasping, the waves of anguish overpowered me. Weak and breathless, I gulped for air, trying to fill my lungs to keep me afloat. I strived to keep an awareness that this grief is a place I must visit, tread its waters, but not drown in its cold, dark depths of despair. Salty tears blinded me, but I had to find my way to the shore, back to my life, my world. Arrhythmic waves continued. Some left me breathless and others carried me forward. The sharp edges of the pain started to wear down with each wave.

In time I found myself standing on that shore. As the tears dried, I could see nothing was the same. I could feel the void where he once was. Where he belonged. In his place was an empty, lifeless void and a deafening silence. Around me, life had continued without me, without Walter. My sea legs beneath me needed to adjust, to build stability as I fumbled through the stages of grief. Irrational, nonsensical thoughts rattled through my brain. From begging God to bring him back, wishing I could trade his life for mine, to feeling such anger and sorrow.

Gradually the intense heaviness of despair started to ease. Left exhausted, moments came where I had to pause, stop time, not think, not feel. Melancholy blanketed me from the outside world, so I could weave a cocoon around me. Inside was a sense of safety, where I could process my thoughts, learn to manage the emotions, and to accept what was is gone.

I feared time would fade the memories; wear away fine details; losing him, losing us to the sands of time. Each trip around the sun would take me further away from him. I worried that in creating new memories, I would forget cherished moments. I would replay the memories over and over, trying to ensure they were burnt in my mind for eternity.

I experienced a year of ‘firsts without Walter’; filled with tears, sadness, and memories. Then another year of occasions ‘without Walter’ came. But this time there were less tears, but the memories remained. I even felt present in the moment, enjoying the now. I came to realize that some memories invoke strong emotions and that is a testament to us. When one’s loved so completely, so deeply, it will leave an everlasting imprint. I started to believe that moving forward wasn’t erasing nor replacing; nor would I forget all those little things that made him Walter.

Ever so gradually, I began to emerge, tired of carrying the weight of emotion, wanting to feel alive, to embrace the world around me. Three years had passed since his death and I wanted to, I needed to move forward. To not be the ‘grieving widow’. To pack away the proverbial black mourning gown. A rather scary venture, as I wasn’t as strong as I once was, nor did I have any idea which direction to go. I was embarking on another journey which would be an intricate dance, with steps forward and back, some sideways, and some slides. And most definitely the odd trip or misstep.

Experts write about the stages of grief, what to watch for, how to prepare, how to respond. But there isn’t much written on how to rebuild a new life after the loss of a partner or how do they know they’ve finished grieving? What I little I could find was vague and rather dated, practically moth ridden. Information for the Leave-it-to Beaver households, for the stay-at-home wife. I didn’t need information on how to balance a cheque book, nor how to operate the lawn mower. What I needed was a guideline as to where I should be – logically and emotionally; where I could find some reassurance that I was not rushing nor lingering too long. I couldn’t find such a reference, so I had to navigate this blindly.

The world around me was familiar but felt different. Our bed, once our haven, felt so cold and empty. I’d strategically place his pillow where he lay, where I cuddled up to it, trying to mimic his presence. As time went on, I gradually adapted, and the need to fill the space waned. As I emerged from the depths of grief, our home, which felt so cold and empty, gradually started to warm, to feel more like home again. Something which I hadn’t thought possible. Little by little, I was adjusting to my life after loss.

I think I’ve worked through the grief in a healthy way. I used available resources, from reading to grief counselling. I worked through thoughts and emotions by talking and writing; and humbly accepted the love and support from my circle of family and friends. But moving forward, starting over, or whatever one chooses to call it, is challenging. Not only has the world I live in changed, but I'm not the person I was before him. Because of him, my experiences, my abilities, passions are so much more. I'm more grounded, softened; the capacity, desire to nurture, to savor, to love had expanded. Not only am I creating a wonderful and fulfilling life for myself but am also discovering who I am. There is now curiosity and a desire to be present, to experience, to explore.

Before Walter passed, he and I were fortunate to have time together to have many hard talks, from dealing with his estate, what were his final wishes, and even my life after him. Walter was a very humble, thoughtful, and selfless partner. He worried about our children and about me, stating how horrible he felt burdening us and causing us pain. Of course, we scolded him for thinking such things, but that’s the type of man he was. He told me how sorry he was for leaving and wanted me to be happy again, to love, to be loved and cared for. I responded to him no, I couldn’t fathom the thought, he was my love. He assured me that our love is eternal, and that in our next life, we’ll find each other again, but much sooner than in this life. But he told me I needed to carry on in this life, and to not be afraid to live, to love or to laugh.

As the months went by, then turning to years; without even realizing, I had started to live again. My calendar started to fill with activities again – evenings out with family and friends, exercise classes, even vacations. The dark cloud of sadness which hung over me had lifted, unveiling the colorful world around me, filled with happiness, humor, opportunity. Like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, I’ve stretched my wings and become acquainted with the person I’ve become. I feel strong, grounded. Even with the newness, my traits that Walter adored had surfaced again – my silliness, spontaneity, enthusiasm. I had done what I promised, I carried on with life, am happy, am living a fulfilling life.

I’ve become comfortable in the silence around me and quite enjoy my own company. I have many varied interests, so I keep myself entertained. Being alone hasn’t been much of an issue. As a naturally extroverted person, I do enjoy the company of others and am blessed with a circle of amazing people, family and friends. So, when I get bored with my own company, I just reach out and chat or go out with a friend.

For me, and I believe for many widows, after the acceptance stage of grief, one of the biggest challenges is the loneliness that exists, and the guilt attached to it. Now, there is a difference between loneliness and being alone. Being alone is being by oneself, without the presence of another. We all should be comfortable being alone, independent and enjoy our personal time. But loneliness is the yearning for interaction, intimacy, connection with another.

I honestly, in my heart of hearts, never thought I’d feel loneliness. As in the intimate, companionship type of loneliness. Prior to Walter, intimacy wasn’t something that I really missed, nor thought much of. Part of this would be because I was busy with life, working, raising two sons on my own, running them to and from activities and I had an active social life. The other part would be that I had never experienced a healthy relationship until Walter. From the moment I met him, it was he and I in our happy place, filled with passion, pure bliss. After he passed away, I thought that part of me had died too.

I couldn’t give an exact date on when it first crossed my mind, but I sure remember the guilt I felt when I first thought of how much I missed the warmth of another. I surprised myself that the thought wasn’t connected to Walter. For years, any thought of such things was of him. Then out of nowhere this abstract thought came out of nowhere. After much reflection, and understanding that was happening was normal, even putting caveats on these thoughts, my guilt eased a bit.

Dare I explain the first time I looked at someone and felt an attraction? It had been such a long time and was so unexpected, I was worse than a thirteen-year-old girl. Trust me when I say I was a mess, I really was. What a mixture of guilt, panic, and oh, such embarrassment. After some self-reflection, I assured myself that is normal, so if it happens again not to panic, it’s okay.

I’ve been honest with myself and can now admit without guilt or caveats that I miss cuddles, kisses, intimacy. I loved being in a relationship, waking up next to a partner. I can now say that should I ever be with another, it would not be disrespectful to Walter, nor minimize what he and I had. I’m not sure what my future holds but am receptive to whatever fate has in store. Maybe a companion, maybe not. Maybe a house full of cats, maybe not. What I do know for sure, is that whatever it is ahead, I’m ready.

Edit:

Thank you all for your kind words. For me, the importance of 'putting my thoughts out there' is to me a personal act of acknowledgement, a linear movement, forward, creating the footprint on my path with dimension. In the piece I wrote, it helped me process where I was at.

As a rather contemplative character, I needed to know have I truly finished grieving? Was I still 'in mourning'? How do I know if I've 'actually moved forward". It's not like flipping a page in a book and suddenly you're into the next chapter. I needed to define myself from 'Linda the widow' and what's highlighted from our love story is the end , to 'Linda" and the beauty of our love story is what is remembered.

I found my litmus test is when things only connected to Walter now were of me, without guilt. I believe I am no longer 'in mourning'. I will always have moments of sadness and longing for Walter, but I carry our love and a multitude of memories to make me smile. I am happy alone. Do I feel like I'm missing out on anything, like I need a partner? No. But I can admit there's moments it would be nice once in a while. Maybe one day, who knows. What I know is I have become Linda, someone who had a beautiful love story and smiles because she did.