One of the things that happens when you become, you know … a widow … is that you are suddenly and intensely aware that every move you make is analyzed, every word you utter is dissected, and every tear you shed is counted. And ever since Jackie O showed the world what grace under fire looks like, you’re either a Jackie O.
Or you’re not.
Well, here’s a little secret. We may look and act like the epitome of grace and decorum on the outside, but on the inside we want to take our white-gloved hands and stuff a pillbox hat straight down the esophagus of each person who said “you were so polished and graceful. Just like Jackie O.”
I find grace and polish to be overrated. And always have. Right down to my boarding school-primed upbringing and my choice college education. Because there’s nothing fun about grace and polish 24/7, and because the expectations are exceedingly high, leaving no margin for error. That doesn’t mean you’ll see my white-trash-trailer-park side anytime soon, but I’m the sorority sister that knew the best frat parties and not the secret handshake. So, you’ll have to forgive my lack of polish, but there’s really no need to sugar coat the obvious.
I am pissed off. Not a little. A lot.
If you know me, you know that I have reached a point where neither grace nor polish can keep the lid on the pressure that has been building.
For 120 minutes now, I have listened to my six-year-old daughter scream sporadically in confusion and pain. Because of dental DNA I place squarely at my late husband’s genetic doorstep. Which will cost me four figures—before the decimal point. That will be a source of frustration and concern for her, ever after. For all the visits that my own pearly whites have endured because of the damage his early departure caused … and the residual carnage my restless mind ground to death while my body slept.
For the odor that has lifted its way to my nostrils from the shoes of the woman sitting in the waiting room next to me while my ears have bled.
He is gone, a fact that I quietly digested, accepted and filed away years ago. While I am no longer angry that he’s gone, I am in moments like this exceptionally livid at what has been left behind. Monthly healthcare bills that extract more from my bank account than a mortgage payment yet cover less than a cable bill. Red tape that stretches on without reason. A house I never wanted and that I am unable to leave. Questions I no longer wish to answer. A life I want to live that is just beyond my reach.
And now this.
For now I’ll wear grace and polish, like wet clothes dampening the rage underneath. And I’ll wear it when she wraps her arms around me, tears falling into my neck. But tonight, when the house is dark and silent, the tears that I held back with a mother’s grace and strength will fall with an woman’s unpolished weakness, hot with pain and cold with loneliness. And I will cry as much for her as for the empty darkness that surrounds me where strong arms do not. But before my tears fall, I will dry hers.
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