February 9, 2014

 Bill and I were married 45 years, and on the whole they were happy years. Of course there was sturm und drang especially during the children’s growing up years. But the years after Bill’s retirement were especially mellow and happy.

 Before he died of cancer, Bill said he was sure that men would be buzzing around me like bees around a honey pot. I guess that was because he thought I was special. But no bees have shown up, and I have not gone out looking for any. I was lucky to find the best man in the world for me when I was only nineteen—that is how old I was when Bill and I met. There may another man out there for me, but frankly I don’t have the energy to go look. One widow I know said she had started dating again, and I felt an involuntary shudder. To start dating again at the age of 71! It was terrifying enough the first time around.

Several widows I know have remarried. One met a man in her new neighborhood a few years after her husband’s death.  They enjoy travel and golf and their blended families. Another remarried a year after her husband died to the new man next door. Another much younger widow has found a new love, and I am very happy for her; she is way too young to spend the rest of her life alone. 

But I am content to walk this path by myself. Bill is gone, but not his love. It was his love that helped me to be the strong resilient woman that I am. I look at the bird bath sundial I gave him for an anniversary gift one year. Engraved on the rim are the words “Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be…”