Continuation

Upon The Death of Sir Albert Morton's Wife

He first deceased; she for a little tried
To live without him, liked it not, and died

Sir Henry Wotton, 1651


I come from a broken home, and so many of my aunts and uncles and friend's parents were divorced that I grew up believing it was near impossible to find a soulmate for life. But in my adult years, I have been privileged to witness three great, enduring marriages among the lives of my friends. Marriages that, while not devoid of conflict, are so solid, so inarguably right that the thought that the halves should separate could not be maintained. And then one was rent apart, not by divorce, but by death.

Now I wonder and I worry about my friend who has been left behind. She is strong, so she will not collapse. She is honest, so she shares her grief. But there must be more that she does not show or tell. The myriad private moments of sorrow, the constant barrage of tiny jolts of loss upon thinking, I must tell him about--and then realizing he is gone. These are things she does not say aloud, but which I know must occur to her. The worst part of all is that I am powerless to help her except by listening when she needs to talk, laughing with her when she needs distraction, and being there for her when she needs someone to lean on. And telling her I love her.