widow shoes

Widow Shoes
March 21, 2006- Tuesday
(Day 14 of Mourning- Full of Revelations)

I went alone to grief therapy today. It was just something that I felt needed to be done on my own. I wanted no one to hold my hand, remind me to breathe, or tell me that everything was going to be "okay."
Alone. Isolated. Solitary. Widowed.

After therapy, I remained solo. I had an aching question in my head, Who am I? “Stupid question,” I thought out loud. My own voice startled me.

I am Mrs. {redacted}. I am Brittany. But, who is she?

I was a wife. I was a partner, lover, best-friend, and favorite companion to one of the greatest men in the world. I am not a wife anymore. I am a widow.

Merriam-Webster defines a widow as: a woman who has lost her husband by death.

He is not LOST. I know where he is… sort of.
I am assuming that he is, physically, at the crematorium, either in body, or in dust. Spiritually, I know he is with his Daddy God.

I know where I am, too. I am leaving the parking-lot of the church. Alone.
Loneliness has become my companion.

I need to find myself.
Where does a woman go when she needs to find something? The mall.

As, I pass by the make-up counters I wonder if the women gossip about how badly they think I need a makeover, under-eye concealer, or a new lipstick. I realize that I don’t care what they think of me. They don’t know me. I don’t even know me. Or, do I?

As I tread through the perfume laden department store, I remember being single, naïve, and how I used to throw my head back and laugh until I would snort (well, I still laugh so hard that I snort... I guess some things don’t change; although, it has been weeks since I laughed). But, I remember me, before I was a devoted wife. However, the memory is vague, like driving through dense, blinding fog.

I stare mindlessly at my shoes.
Widow’s shoes.

In my stereotypical “widow image,” widows wear chunky, frumpy, rubble-soled, orthopedic shoes. Shoes made by Clark’s or Bass.
My shoes are black, wedge, flip-flops from Old Navy. They don’t look like a widow’s shoes. I remind myself that I don’t have on Depends underpants either.

My flip-flops transport me into various boutiques and shops. My shoes and I are out and about... alone, and in public (I do realize that is an oxymoron, but I feel alone even when other people are near).

I begin to feel the old me.
Something strange happens. I feel weird. My lips part, just slightly, as I begin to smile. This smile is honest, whole-hearted, and sincere. I am sharing the history of my husband with a stranger. I was not simply telling her how and when he died, and how much it hurt that he was gone, but I was awarding her with stories of our love for each other.
Huh? A real smile?! It felt good.

Leaving the mall, I feel as though I may just make it through all of this massive, sluggish, leaden heartache.

I like my shoes...
They get me to where I want and need to be.
I need to be here: finding myself.

Original image by Brittany.
Frame designed by Rhonna Farrer.