28 December 2018
BH always said, “She’ll be a merry one!”
He meant widow of course. I rather saw myself in deep black with jet earrings and a veil. Possibly even weepers. As a matter of fact my clothes haven’t changed at all: trousers, a polo shirt and big furry jerseys – in fact similar to what BH wore in his older, relaxed years. The clean and neat nurse, with proper footwear (always loved improper footwear).
Did he think I would suddenly, aged 80, start dancing again? If only; or take up bowls at the Club? Even go to Vienna, home of the merriest of widows? He knew I disliked F Lehar as much as he disliked R Wagner. Guess which one of us yelled, “Turn that rubbish off!” and which one left the room in a huff?
I dislike the word “widow”. Dry, black and rusty; and “widower” sounds like a lawnmower. French is good with its hint of bubbles – veuve chanceuse, “lucky widow”. Lithuanian even better, gentle, melodious, – laiminga našlė means “happy widow”. Get your Lithuanian friends to pronounce it for you.
While not going so far as happy, I am most certainly lucky.
How about relict? Both legal and dignified. “The Lucky Relict.” No.
My goodness I was lucky! Here was this exotic young man, handsome and with a decent job, older than my usual escorts and with the glamour of the army (why do they say “military” nowadays?) still hanging about him. Out of all the girls, when he had the pick of dozens (of his own nationality for starters), he picked me.
I couldn’t then, and can’t now, believe my luck. His whole life from then on was devoted to my well-being, my comfort, my safety. He spoiled me rotten. Even our quarrels, and there were some corkers, were fodder for future laughs and mutual growth of a positive tree of happiness.
Tomorrow, December 29th, is the first anniversary of my beloved one’s death. Mass will be celebrated for the repose of his soul, not only in my local church but in many places round the world where he was admired and loved. It’s the feast of St Thomas à Becket and the Becket rose I planted in BH’s memory is hunkered down for the winter.
He left this lucky widow with all his papers in good order, his accounts up to date, his Will as simple as possible. This paragon even named and dated his photographs! His personal wishes were arranged and mostly carried out long before he died. These concerned the disposal of his books, one or two paintings, archival material, and the precious Katyn mug.
Apart from stating that he wished to be cremated (in accordance with the dictates of the Catholic Church) and his ashes taken to Lithuania, his funeral directions were left entirely to the family. What a good idea! Everybody joined in and it gave the children something of a focus to help mitigate their grief, often overlooked. Each contributed their individual skills – to the music, flowers, Bidding Prayers, Order of Service, Memorial cards, seating plan, Reception. Cocooned in the centre of all this I felt as safe as in a cradle.
Neither was I left alone, night or day, until well after the Requiem. Suitable clothes were found, delicious food prepared and shared, and a remarkable understanding for feelings and moods. The non-stop flow of tea, toast and chocolate; visitors, ‘phone calls, cards and letters all helped pass the time and ease the weird sense of being only half a person.
This man had surrounded me with love during our long life together; a love the foolish twenty-year old often took for granted, and didn’t really deserve. He never wanted anything for himself except my love, and to give his to me. An oft repeated sentence was, “If you want it, you shall have it“. A new gizmo or box-set of CD’s.
And, “Do you still love me?” Oh yes! Yes.
Of course I miss him. Tears come in little rushes – in church often; when I hear bits of opera (not Messrs W or L) we enjoyed together; a much-thumbed copy of Eugene Onegin. Old shoes are so painful they’re best given away immediately.
Someone told me it would take a thousand days; another said a year.
But I suspect it will be forever.