Won't?

MY PRIVATE WORLD

 

Not that I didn't expect it, I did, for 15 long years, with a lot more distress than joy. But the day came and I was stunned being a widow. I just couldn't believe it. My husband knew that the big clock outside his room was counting off his hours and seemed to not mind at all. He was ready, really ready to find what happens after his last breath whithers away. One of the few quiet mornings in his room when the nurses still pumped drugs into his arm, he turned his head to me and asked, 'What are you gonna do when I leave the building, Rose?' I gathered my senses as best as I could, and told him what I expect to do, but made no promises. Too fast and foolishly I laid my plans before him.

 

'Gil, I am going to have to go on, maybe sell our house, get a smaller apartment, travel, live as well and as happily as I can. I'll have to make new friends, widows like myself. Maybe I'll get a job, do charity work.'
He never blinked an eye, showed no emotion but managed to say, 'Good that's what I want you to do. You will be gobbled up by a strong, healthy dancing king and maybe you will be happier than when we were together. Let's pray for that, shall we?'He closes his eyes and tears run from their corners.

 

Gil passed the next day. That first lonely night I shivered, pulled our blanket tight around me, moved close to his side of the bed and let the river flow. Gratefully our children took over, arranged the funeral. I, too, got busy, refused to be a grieving blob, silently begging for company, the name of a widower. Our son stayed with me for two weeks, helping with papers, taking Gil's clothes to Good Will. My half empty closet began to depress me more and more so I spread my clothes out on the racks wider, wider but did not fool myself. The walk for one is long, empty but I walk our area on sunny, warm days, look at the trees, the weeds coming thru the green grass, I see the blue sky and the huge ball of red fire as it sinks in the west, turn around and go home alone. Oh, how I hate unlocking the front door, until I see one message on my recorder. I rush to return our son Jerry's call. He picks up the phone at once and gives me good news.

 

He's coming to visit me next week for three whole days, if I don't mind. A happy scream almost bursts his ear drum. 'Dad left things in pretty good shape, but not good enough. His will was at your attorney's and we have to get that cleared. 'How's Wednesday evening. I'm renting a car and you can have your baked lasagna ready for me. OK?' He emails me details and I shop the way I used to, where I used to. I feel semi-alive again.

 

Jerry arrives and we hug, we gab. He gives me a present. It's in a fairly small box with a big polka dot bow. I open it slowly so maybe I can use the bow for something some day. 'What is it?' I ask. 'Mother, for god's sake it's a cell phone!' Our conversation gets tight. I don't want a cell phone. I'm never going to use it. Please take it back and get something for yourself, like a new woman.' He thinks I'm joking but I'm not. 'I am NOT going to use a cell phone. I have phones in 4 of my six rooms.' 'But, Mom, it's wireless. Suppose you fall or have a car accident or just need AAA because your car is dead.' 'Jerry, don't use the word 'dead' right now.'

 

He doesn't let up, nags me. I feel like hitting him over the head with his new contraption for me. 'Mom, I can't return it. Look at this. I've programed it for you, have phone numbers of your doctor, AAA, neighbors, good friends, mine, of course. Give me other names and numbers and I'll show you how to put them in to the cell and call them.'
'Don't you get it, Son? I don't want it, will never use it. Electronics and I are in different worlds.'

 

Together we enjoy a glass of Chianti, a fresh salad (not one from a pre-packed plastic bag) and savor, enjoy the large lasagna I have loving made for him. Our time together is far too short. We settle problems and he is ready to leave. I hug him, kiss his cheek, hand him a double wrapped frozen  package of my lasagna.' He smiles and tells me to put it in my freezer for myself and has the guts to tell me he is never going to eat it. He's going on a diet. 'Go on a diet after you eat it, Jerry. You aren't going to eat my lasagna and I am not going to use the cell phone you are trying to push down my throat.'

 

He waves goodbye. I wave back and find the damn cell on the kitchen table. I'm never going to use it but put it in my every-day purse.