Today I gave a holiday party for my memoir writers’ group. We meet at my church the first and third Friday of each month, and have been doing this for over ten years. For the past four or five years, on the third Friday of December, we have held a holiday party after our meeting, sharing food and enjoying talking to one another in our church meeting room. Last year I had an inspiration and suggested that we adjourn from the church to my house, about five minutes away, for our holiday party. My little house was decorated for Christmas, there was music and candle light, and all thirteen seemed to enjoy the setting. So this year, I invited the group to my home for the party again.

 The thing is… if Bill had been alive, I doubt I would have invited them. This house was our home, and inviting a large group of people late in the afternoon close to what Bill considered dinner time (5:00 pm) would have been infringing on his space. Perhaps an extrovert would have been just fine with a late afternoon party for twelve strangers, but Bill was not an extrovert, although he was a very generous and warm host. It would have needed the kind of delicate negotiating act that any spouse in a marriage of many years would recognize.

 But now this is my house, my home. I can invite anyone here, any time that I choose. But oh how I wish that were not the case, that I could turn back the clock and have Bill here to say to, “What do you think about inviting my memoir writing group here for our annual holiday party next Friday? I think there are some guys you would enjoy talking to.”

 Now as I extinguish the candles and clean up the dishes, I think about loss and change, and I wonder how other widows view the bitter sweetness of new freedoms.