THE HOSPITALITY WIDOW

A lady in my writing group told me about a funeral she went to the other day.  The deceased was an acquaintance of her husband’s and my writing buddy got talking with his widow.

“I knew he was going down hill the last couple of days,” she told my friend.  “One day he was lying in bed calling out to me, ‘Help, help’ he kept saying.  And I said, I can’t help you, you’re dying!”  And then she said… “Do you think this means I can join RSVP?” 

Grief affects us all in different ways I suppose.

I am a different kind of widow.  To borrow a phrase from my friend who owns a bar with her boyfriend, I am a hospitality widow, though I’m not considering joining an internet dating site.  Instead, I spend 6 days and nights a week waiting for that one twenty-four hour period when I might get some time with my beloved.  That is if he’s not too tired or distracted to notice me. 

I am being rather melodramatic.  It’s really not that bad, and I’m often the one with my nose at the computer madly typing anyway. 

Or running. 

You’d think since he only has one day off a week I could manage to control myself, but ofttimes I can’t.  Out I go, promising to be back in forty minutes, so we can settle in for some quality husband and wife time.  Except the other day, when I was struggling and my run took me a good ten minutes longer than usual.  Isn’t it incredible that your pace can vary that much?  As an amateur.  I doubt that happens if you’re a professional.

I do keep silly hours to try and see Gregory – up early for me and up late for him – which I think attributed to my poor run.  I was tired.  Simple problem, even simpler solution.  But since I didn’t manage to get any more sleep last night, I skipped the run today.  Which means I’ll be itching for one tomorrow despite the fact that it is, of course, Gregory’s one day off.

Is this what marriage really boils down to?  Whom do I please?  Myself or my beloved?  Sacrifice and compromise.  Forsaking ones needs for the betterment of others.  

To run or not to run.  That is the question.