Kitchen Table

God smiled the day Shelby boldly said, “I can work from anywhere in the lower 48 states. All I need is a kitchen table and wifi.”

The dark years of widowhood had given her a thin sense of invincibility, a silver lining, a super power that came from knowing she’d survived what was once unthinkable. And now, at age 60, she knew it was time—time to take off her wedding ring and begin living again.

And so it began—the adventure, an intentional act of opening her heart to the possibility of finding someone to converse with over coffee or dinner, perhaps see a movie or a play.

Friends from church recommended a dating app designed for the over 50 set, and Shelby gathered a few photos then went to her daughter for a little coaching.

A bit fearful, Shelby asked, “What do I do if some guy sends me a nude photo?”

Her daughter replied with laughter, “Tell him that stuff belongs on SnapChat.”

“Ok, then” Shelby thought, her eyebrows coming together creating creases in her forehead, “Let’s give this a try.”

After Shelby uploaded her photos and completed several questions, the app posted one photo over the prompt “How about we…” and Shelby wrote “… be authentic. Let’s meet for coffee, drinks, dinner (or Saturday morning hot stretchy yoga?) and see where it leads.”

No one showed up for yoga.

In the section called “Details” Shelby clicked boxes: Self-employed. College. 2 children; 0 at home. Christian. Non-smoker. Height 5’10.”

On a whim she did a little digging and discovered that only 3.9% of American adult males are 6’2” or taller. “That explains so much about my adolescence,” she quipped, remembering the awkwardness of being the tallest person in her 7th grade class.

Then, rising to the statistical challenge of weeding out 96.1 percent of men, Shelby set her profile to include guys 6’1” and taller.

She quickly discovered… MEN LIE.

Shelby first posted her profile on January 4th and 8 days later she met guy #1 for coffee. He was 5’7” at best.

On January 22nd she met guy #2 for dinner one weekend and lunch the next. He lived on a houseboat docked on the Mississippi, which promised summer fun, but it was winter. Shelby moved on.

Scrolling the app she challenged Bachelor #3 to a small wager on the Super Bowl, and accepted a lunch invitation from guy #4.

When she had lunch with #4 at a local diner, he was tall, clever, greeted her with a hug, and managed to overcome Shelby’s objection to being walked to her car. Apparently it’s an app thing. The guy walks you to your car, like it’s the front door of your apartment. “Good to know,” thought Shelby as she drove away, then later found herself wondering if he’d expected a kiss.

About the same time, Shelby side-stepped an invitation from a much younger man. “I’m flattered AND it would just be awkward,” Shelby said. “You’re the same age as my daughter.”

Then, on Valentine’s Day there were six messages from age-appropriate men.

Shelby, who didn’t much care for Valentine’s Day, couldn’t help but recall that time back in high school when the Future Homemakers of America had frosted cookies for a bake sale with “Happy VD.”

“That was great” thought Shelby, laughing out loud before listening to the messages and updating her calendar: coffee Wednesday with #4 (he’d walked her to her car), a drink Thursday with Bachelor #3 (he’d lost their Super Bowl bet and owed her a shot of Tequila), AND dinner Friday with #5 (he’d appeared on the app after she’d expanded her search to Minnesota).

As a woman who highly valued monogamy, this 3-night, 3-guy lineup left Shelby feeling stressed. After thinking about it for a bit, Shelby was convince authenticity was the way to go.

On Wednesday #3 didn’t show up for coffee. “Well, that’s authentic,” said Shelby, feeling a little snarky.

On Thursday, the tequila led to a margarita, appetizers and great conversation. When Shelby left the pub, she found herself looking forward to seeing #3—again.

During her drive home that night, #5 texted, and Shelby inwardly groaned. At this point meeting another guy seemed like a waste of time.

On Friday #5 rolled into town, selected a restaurant, then texted her. Shelby happened to be at a nearby car wash, so when he came through the door, she was standing at the host station wearing a 70s retro shirt, jeans and a pair of clogs with 3” wood heals—just in case he’d lied about his height.

If arriving early or Shelby’s enhanced height caught #5 off guard he didn’t miss a beat, greeting her with a hug. Then a moment later, when he went back out to his car to get something and he left her standing there, she gave him a smidgen of grace.

The something turned out to be chocolates in a red heart-shaped box. “So much for authenticity” she thought accepting the candy with a smile, hiding her true feelings about Valentine’s Day.

3 ½ hours later, when #5 yawned, Shelby realized it was time to call it a night. He paid the check, held the door for her, then walked her across the parking lot. As they reached her car, Shelby opened the back door and tossed the chocolates onto the seat, then watched in horror as the candy skidded to the floor.

“Glad I didn’t open THAT box.” she thought, silently.

A moment later, when #5 took Shelby in his arms and kissed her, she didn’t want the evening to end. But, before she could object, he tucked her into her car and said goodnight.

Sometime later he texted an invitation to breakfast, making it clear it was her turn to pick the restaurant.

The next morning they split an omelet, then spent the day exploring her city. That night they enjoyed a play at the performing arts center, and made plans to attend church on Sunday.

God smiled again when, after church, the pastor in her city reached out to a good friend—the pastor in his, and before #5 arrived home, news of Shelby had already spread.

12 days later she drove to his city and met his daughter. Shelby kicked off her clogs in the entryway, and later discovered the dog had used one for a chew toy. Go figure!

The following evening, on the way to dinner with some of his friends, #5 pulled up in front of a house Shelby wasn’t familiar with and put the car in park. “If it’s ok, I’d like you to meet my mom.”

“Yeah. No.” thought Shelby, her face contorting into a grimace as she got out of the car.

A few minutes later, in the awkward silence, Shelby leaned into authenticity, “Well, this is awkward,” she said. “I haven’t been introduced to a guy’s mother like this since 1985.”

61 days later Shelby relocated.

Her sister uses the word Thunderstruck.

Shelby now works from the kitchen table in a cozy Rambler owned by #5. His house. Their home.

She laughed recently, recalling the words that began this adventure: “I can work from anywhere… all I need is a kitchen table and wifi.”

Then she sat down and began working on a new short story, her first few keystrokes revealing the title: Kitchen Table.

-rjw

Originally shared on 02/04/2026 at the Cultural Centre & Gallery Valentines Waffle Bar

The LORD makes firm the steps of the one who delights in him. Ps 37:23

Waiting for Sunrise

I softly awaken in the familiar house—the grandchildren and their parents having arrived home from Wisconsin last night. I use the restroom, and without turning on any lights, go to the kitchen to retrieve my water bottle. I discover hot coffee. My son, one of the parents, kept it on warm when he left for work this morning. I am thankful.

I pour it into a teal-colored mug before filling the carafe with cool water and dispensing it into the coffee maker's reservoir. I swing out the small door than conceals a damp filter filled with grounds, remove it and add a new filter and two scoops of rich, brown coffee. I press large brew button that lights up to confirm that the process has begun. 

I take my mug into the dark living room and snuggle back into the comforter. The sky outside the sliding glass doors is darkest gray; the bare trees that adjoin the river are barely visible in the faint moonlight. I think of the year I lived here, the days and nights spent pondering the river, my sadness so heavy that it held me captive. I think of my friend, a man I met when I first attended grief group. He was active in the Elks Club and I enjoyed the black-light bingo events with him and other friends who gathered there. The celebration of his life was this past weekend. He is reunited, now in heaven, with the woman he loved most—his wife. 

My thoughts move to my husband—an image of he and our grandson decorating the Christmas tree at the Blue House years ago. I leave the nested sofa and walk down the hall to check in on our grandson who is sleeping peacefully. Tears fall. 

In the time it takes me to gather my computer and begin to write, an unimpressive clouded day begins without the fanfare of sunrise. A storm is coming, my daughter-in-law observed last night, when I complained about the lack of whole milk and fresh chicken—empty shelves—at the local store. 

The winter gray sky confirms her words. A storm is coming. The day begins.

Welcome, welcome Christmas day

Early on this Christmas morning the world is dark when I drag the comforter from my bedroom into the living room, pull the wicker rocker close to the fireplace and snuggle in to enjoy the lights of the tree—yellow, blue, purple, red and green.

Slowly, the windowed darkness fades to soft gray and the branches of the sentinel—the oak tree on the lawn—take form in silhouette against the night.

The delicate and alluring beauty of the unfolding dawn echoes an ancient promise, "Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." Matthew 11:28

My mind wanders among the memories of Christmas past... the green velvet dress our daughter wore as a toddler; the first time we cut our own Christmas tree; meals of potato soup with crusty warm bread; the smell of baking hamballs and the messy sweetness of children decorating sugar cookies; gifts of ice skates, rollerblades, a bicycle, an MP3 player and snow skis; the arrival of the piano and the big red bow that adorned it, the elementary nativities with shepherds and angels; the high school Christmas concerts and madrigal singers; the wing-themed ornaments given to college students in our soon-to-be-empty nest; the sound of toddler delight with the arrival of the grandchildren; the undercurrent of silent sadness after my husband's death; the love that resuscitates our hearts as life unfolds in each new year.

Welcome, welcome Christmas day.

Rw

Barcodes, Coffee and Grief

It took my breath away.  

Walking into Caribou Coffee and seeing the man sitting next to the fireplace at the high-top table for two took my breath away. The shape of his shoulders, the style and texture of his shirt, the color and cut of his hair... this man, with his back to me, could have been my husband. 

It took my breath away because my husband died 5 years, 6 months and 5 days ago. This man, who looks so much like him, is a stranger.

In the early years of my grief journey many encounters stole my ability to breathe... the moments of pain came close together like the lines of a barcode. Honestly its been awhile since something like this has happened. The white spaces between the thin black lines of pain have broadened. 

In the beginning I held that there was no hope of the grief that accompanied my every waking moment ever fading. And, in this moment, I realize that the pain has faded into the background while the desire to be with my husband remains constant, deeply buried and ready to be unearthed.

Grief is odd that way, unexpected. And, if grief is what remains when the person we love moves on, grief is both unique to the love once shared and universal in the human experience.

"There are three things that amaze me—
    no, four things that I don’t understand:   

    how an eagle glides through the sky,
    how a snake slithers on a rock,
    how a ship navigates the ocean,
    how a man loves a woman." 

                —Proverbs 30:18-19 NLT [more]

Rw

 

Grief: Does Time Really Heal All Wounds? [more]

Caribou Coffee original logo [more]

Truth Be Told

2:15PM 

I am running away, with a large Diet Coke from Jack in the Box. I am sitting in my car in a shaded parking spot at Mastodon State Park.

It is Thursday and I am tired-- weary of whining codependent people who seem to think that I somehow possess an endless supply of empathy (while being keenly aware I too am a whining codependent). I am tired-- exhausted in supporting my sister in her choice to care for our aging parents in their home, a choice that is crushing her in so many ways.  

I am tired-- drained by living in Ashleigh Woods, a Truman Show replica, a subdivision of gazebos and picture perfect $300k houses where the garage is the most frequent point of entry and front doors remain unopened. I am tired of living where there is little or no room for me, where heating a cup of water for instant coffee leaves me feeling as though I am intruding. In response I retreat to the 12 x 12 room that serves as my bedroom, my office, my home-- the room shared walk-in closet containing women's Poshmark-worthy fashions and my limited Goodwill collection of spring-summer casual clothing.

I am thankful for the room's generous windows facing north-northwest and framing the forested bluff and the clear blue sky, where I can watch red-tailed hawks soar over the bluff.

I am tired of needing tires on my car. I am ashamed of not earning income enough to promptly pay the $300 rent due each month on my room, and I feel a bit guilty that I drive through Culver's too often and pay storage fees for stuff I desire, but probably do not need: two wicker rockers, photographs, books, and warm winter clothing.

I am tired of groceries, office supplies, and toilet paper going on my Red Card, the balance rising toward the credit limit with each purchase.  

I am tired of living in emotional and physical celibacy. 

I am weary of being a sparrow in a sea of flamingos.

I miss the flawed sanctuary of my studio apartment at Taravue and the companionship of my dog, Harley, who was with me until August 27th of 2018... or 2019. My heart breaks with vivid memories of our last day together and the frustration of being unable to remember which year.

I miss friends and family in Wisconsin-- people who knew my husband and think of me as married or part of a couple, even though he's been gone nearly five years now.

"Truth Be Told" by Matthew West comes on the car radio-- tuned into JoyFM Saint Louis: Lie number one, you're supposed to have it all together...

I listen to the lyrics. I am soothed by the song, then suddenly squirm with the need for a restroom-- one of the disadvantages of being nearly 60 years old. I compose myself and walk toward the park's public restrooms, hoping these are unlocked in this claustrophobic Covid-19 world. Blessing-- the blessing of flush toilets, hand soap, running water and toilet paper. 

On the walk back to the car I detour over a walk bridge and through a picnic shelter with a large grill on one end and a horseshoe court on the other. The trail beckons and I walk on, following the path of white crushed rocks away from my car and toward the stream bed I know is there.

This part of Mastodon Park reminds me of the Ledges State Park in Boone County, Iowa-- especially the shallow, inviting waterways. Our son and daughter-in-law brought me here once, to Mastodon, along with the first two grandchildren, and we spent the day in the creek bed-- the warmth of the Saint Louis summer subdued by the shade of ample trees and the flow of cool water. 

When a choice-- a fork in the path-- comes, I choose the longer one which I believe will bring me out near my car. I pass on the option of the much-much-much longer Limestone Hill Trail, and come out of the woods where I'd anticipated. A sign where the path breaks into the clearing reads, "Spring Branch Trail .8 mile loop." That is far enough, given I am wearing flip flops. 

I had not planned to walk at all and I feel better having done so. None of the many things that leave me tired have changed, yet, somehow, a short walk in the gentle woods has soothed me.

God is not surprised.

R

Persevere

The scripture reads perseverance… not a walk in the park. I am struggling with perseverance this morning. I am overweight, feeling used, lonely, and exhausted. SLOTH is the most frequently checked descriptive in my Celebrate Recovery daily inventory —4 out of the past 5 days. This morning, I am deeply and tearfully missing my husband. I do not want to continue walking this life without him. I differentiate this from the phrase I do not want to continue walking this life alone. I do not long for a companion-spouse, I long for my lost companion-spouse—the laughter and compatibility, the deep knowing of our interwoven stories, the delight and love reflected in his eyes, the comfort of his presence, even the brisk dismissiveness that surfaced when we were fighting against each other instead of for each other. I cry out to God, I can’t do this anymore! I don’t want to do this anymore. There is a heavy whine to the w-a-a-a-n-n-t. I sit in the truth of my selfishness. I sit in the truth of my pain. I sit in the truth of perseverance.

"And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us," - Hebrews 12:1b NIV

R 

 

The Third Act

A new season... life's third act. Today another year begins. The age-o-meter is ticking toward the next decade. 

My soul feels vital and alive; I am surprised by the inner sensation of being a thirty-something. At the same time, my gray hair and grandchildren reveal that my earthbound body is decades older.

During yoga stretches this morning -- a familiar but neglected habit -- my shoulders grumble a bit before giving in to the sensation of freedom. The lyrics of "It Is Well With My Soul..." drift through my earbuds, carried by the voice of Audrey Assad. Tears form and flow for all that is not as I expected it to be.

I switch to another favorite, "Say Yes" by Michelle Williams, and let the rhythms and lyrics lift me into my day -- day one of whatever God has planned for this new season, the third act.

Rw

Lament and Celebration

Pour out your heart like water.

The phrase brings tears even now, four years later. Can it really be four years? Yes. This is my fifth Independence Day weekend without my husband. The loss is still heavy. I've grown stronger through the years. I've grown weaker these past four months.

At sunset last night I went for a drive to QT to buy snacks---a weakness. As I pulled out of the parking lot, I found myself, car windows open, singing God Bless America, a patriotic song I'd been taught in elementary school... then stopping my voice abruptly when a couple of neighbors out on the sidewalk raised their heads to glance at me.

I rolled up my window, looked straight ahead, and kept driving.

Along the way my comfortable, established, middle-class-to-affluent neighbors celebrated our independence---the American Revolution and our growing freedom from COVID-19 (or at least an easing of its restrictions).

The sky over our neighborhood lit up with exploding fireworks; the night echoed with rhythmic, spontaneous bursts of pop-pop-pop; and the air beneath the streetlights clouded with fog-like smoke.

I wept... for the battles, for the victories, for the people.

Rw

Arise, cry out in the night

as the watches of the night begin;

pour our your heart like water

in the presence of the Lord.

Lamentations 2:19

Photo by Chris Nemeth on Unsplash

My Happy Place

Castle by Milaney

In the past couple of weeks a handful of women began meeting... women I consider mentors and friends. Our purpose is to discuss the emotions we are experiencing in this time of COVID-19. Grief is what brings us together.

We began by introducing ourselves, answering the question: Who are you?

This simple question is difficult to answer.

Often in American culture we are asked at introduction: What do you do?

Which seems to mean: What do you do for money?

Very few people want to begin by hearing about volunteerism, missions, passions, triumphs, dreams and struggles. Perhaps as the conversation progresses we might get to some of that, but mostly we are seeking a simple box of containment: What do you do for money?

My heart wants to go deeper. Perhaps that is why the question is: Who are you?

My answer on that first day of our new group: Despite the fact that my book earned $6 in royalties this past year, I am a writer.

I am a writer.

I am an editor.

I am pretty good at real estate transaction coordination... the paperwork.

If the question is: What do you do? then my ranking is reversed because we are speaking about what we do to earn money.

I am a real estate transaction coordinator.

I am an editor.

I am a writer.

I am also a grandmother, a mother, a mother-in-law, a fifty-something caucasian woman with a partial college education, a friend, a companion, a roommate, a leader, a follower, a sister, a daughter, a niece, an aunt, a widow and oddly a wife... still wearing his ring.

The follow up question now seems to be: Where is your happy place?

In being a grandmother, in seeing my husband's legacy live, love, learn and grow. 

The castle has lots of rooms.

R

Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. You know the way to the place where I am going. -- Jesus, in John 14:1-4 [more]

Autonomy

At sunrise on the Saturday before Easter, I drove a few miles south to leave on the front porch a birthday surprise for my daughter-in-law and granddaughter (the one who just turned two). In the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic and safer-at-home guidelines, being present to witness the blowing out of the birthday candles is not worth the risk of me bringing the virus into their home. My heart finds joy in photos shared on social media and rests in the assurance that this season of isolation will pass...  On Easter Sunday my daughter and I spoke via Zoom, a new-to-me audio/video conferencing platform. She sent me the invitation entitled Digital Coffee. I clicked on the link and we chatted: me from the corner of the kitchen in Missouri, she from the newly synthesized at-home-office in the corner of an extra bedroom in Wisconsin.

My daughter and daughter-in-law, along with my son and son-in-law are strong, intelligent adults who cared for me in the early years of my widowhood, when to stop breathing was my daily prayer. In this, the fourth year of the widow-journey, my mental and emotional health are stabilizing. I am embracing life and finding joy again. Yet, in this pandemic and with the recent lowering of the at-risk age to those of us over 50, I am mentally addressing life's inevitable end. 

The conversations are difficult. No human wants to imagine the end of life for someone we love. Yet, the protocols for the end of my life are in place. My son is the executor of my will. My daughter is person designated in my healthcare power of attorney. 

On Saturday morning, during our Digital Coffee, God opened a moment for saying the difficult words, reminding my daughter that if I become deathly ill I want no extraordinary measures to prolong my life. 

I am not being an alarmist. I am doing my homework. Early studies are showing that loved ones who are diagnosed with COVID-19 and decline to the point where we are put on ventilators will not likely leave the hospital.

"It's very concerning to see how many patients who require ventilation do not make it out of the hospital," says Dr. Tiffany Osborn, a critical care specialist at Washington University in St. Louis who has been caring for coronavirus patients at Barnes-Jewish Hospital. [more]

One of the tenets of my faith that held me steady at the death of my husband is that life itself is in the hands of our Lord, that the days of our lives are numbered, perhaps from the moment of creation itself.

I am inspired by the lyrics of Light Shine Bright:

I wanna magnify Your light 

I wanna reflect the sun
Cut like precious diamonds
With the colors by the millions
This is the only world we know
And for now this rental's our home
If we gonna be a reflection
Gotta make this third rock glow

This is earth is our rental. Eternal life is on the other side.

Jesus promises: "My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am." John 14:2-3

My daughter once observed that autonomy is something I highly value. Faith is essential too.

Holding onto His promises.

R

resource: talking about death and dying

photo: me. a brunett in the '70s.

Restless

The afternoon light fades into evening, then is overcome by the darkness of night. The social distancing implemented to flatten the curve of the pandemic leaves me restless. I stare at the ceiling fan in my bedroom. My introvert longs for human interaction. I cannot imagine the torment this must be for the extroverts. I am thankful for my daily conversations with my roommate and one brief exchange with the Fed Ex guy who delivered a package on Monday. On Saturday I take time out and listen to an author-friend explore Elijah's story. She describes her own journey adhering to the Safer at Home guidelines and invites us to do the same... to sit in our emotions, our sense of isolation, disruption and loss. My mind wanders backward in time: The Great Recession, Ebola, 9/11, Y2K, Cold War, Space Shuttle Challenger, AIDS Epidemic, Jonestown Massacre, and assassinations of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and President John F. Kennedy ... poverty, wealth, faith, doubt, divorce, marriage, widowhood, pregnancy, childbirth, growth, strength, love. Using a black pen I write ill-equipped, lost, scared, distracted, loved, blessed, befriended, scattered, faithful, concerned, adrift, self-doubt and assured on the line-less white paper in front of me. The virus is contagious. Panic is contagious too. The author encourages us to journal our thoughts on COVID-19's impact and our experience. I draw a horizontal line across my page and make a timeline in response to her question: How will we use these days? Be calm. Be kind. Be patient. God is bigger than whatever evil threatens to emotionally crush me today. 

R

I leave you peace; my peace I give you. I do not give it to you as the world does. So don’t let your hearts be troubled or afraid. -- Jesus, in John 14:27 NCV

Chaos-Yarn-Tornado

The air smells sweet and inviting as I open the patio door to let in the breeze. Freshly mown grass. Blossoming honeysuckle. I walk across the lively green clover masquerading as grass in the island of the parking lot and make my way past the swimming pool. Laborers are working on it... restoration and repair. Hopefully it will be done for the holiday weekend coming up at the end of May. 

At the far end of the courtyard surrounding the pool I make my way up a concrete stairway. I continue heading north for a block or so before turning east and looping through the neighborhood on Peace Haven, then south on Sappington Barracks Road, turning west again and heading home along Barracksview… my one-mile loop. The smell of honeysuckle comes and goes as I walk, my eyes enjoy the blooming color of delightful flower gardens, bushes accentuating well-manicured lawns, the intriguing 5 3 1 of the numbers identifying the house painted on metal buckets overflowing with fresh growing things! I think of my daughter and her husband, their house, something clever … though 3 1 3 2 will be four buckets and that even number is just not as appealing. I tuck the crumpled idea away for another time. My daughter and her husband are already gathering ideas that inspire. My gardening, painting, mulching, porch decorating days are behind me. I walk on. 

On my right is the blue house, its magnolia tree fully green now, having dropped its magnificent blooms some weeks ago. I pass under a towering oak tree and am reminded of the trees of my childhood. The evening is a warm and inviting 79 degrees, which (to a girl from Wisconsin) feels like mid-summer… not spring, not the first week of May… Summer! Returning to the apartment, I open my patio door wide to welcome the breeze. 

I am restless… weary of the required reading for the real estate licensing exam and the self-imposed foray into a Cloud and Townsend book on boundaries and motherhood. I put down my highlighters –- yellow for the boundaries book; yellow, pink, green to organize the seemingly endless minutiae to be memorized for the real estate exam. I rise from my chair, stare at the wall calendar and contemplate… when do I want to take the exam? Resignation to the keeping of my promise takes me to the computer and soon I am scheduling. 9am May 17. $62 please. 

Well, that's a stretch. Please was not displayed on the screen. 

I exit the exam vendor page and log in to my real estate email. I add the appointment to the online calendar I share with the broker who employs me as her assistant and note the expense in the register of my checkbook. 

As I commit to taking the next step all that I am doing-pursuing-experiencing brings images of a Spirograph attempt gone awry, or skeins of yarn twisted and knotted, the colors endlessly intersecting. 

I put my fingers to the computer keyboard and type chaos-yarn-tornado and a few other words seeking an image that speaks to the current state of me.  

As the setting sun abandons the sky, a gentle rain begins to fall. In the quiet of this night I breathe in the damp freshly washed air and embrace the immutable widowed sadness within me. 

R 

image credit

Dinner from an Empty Refrigerator

As I put down the red silicone scraper and step back from the stove, something pleasing catches my eye, something beautiful, this food. 

I'd worked only one job today, and my small group was canceled due to icy weather so ... when I arrived home, the luxury of time met me at the door. The studio apartment -- all 461 square feet of it -- has been home for the past year. Many might consider it small. It all depends on where you are coming from ... 

... and when arriving here I'd come from a bedroom plus bath where I'd lived as a guest and grandmother-in-residence for 14 months. Yes, my son and daughter-in-law were inviting, loving, gracious and welcoming. The kitchen, living room, kids' bedrooms, play room and family room were open to me almost any time and there was a spoken expectation that I'd join the family for dinner, which was wonderful ... and yet the introvert in me felt more comfortable upstairs, in my bedroom plus bath, listening to the muffled voices of the grandchildren reading or playing or squabbling or getting ready for bed.

Tonight, my meal, the food -- a southwestern rice with beans and corn served over sauteed breast of chicken with a heaping spoonful of cream cheese blended with sour cream and salsa, plus fresh chocolate chip cookies -- looked so inviting! I am not much of a cook and readily confess that I'd rather be eating ... enjoying the aromas, textures, flavors. The feel of the warm ceramic bowl in my hands, the balance of the well-crafted fork, inspire delight. 

I wash the dishes, including a carafe of way-too-old-to-consume pineapple juice left over from my January birthday. The refrigerator looks quite empty. In the digestive aftermath of the meal I move on, choosing to sit on the futon snuggled up with a soft grey lap blanket gifted me one Christmas by my niece. 

The apartment is quiet. I miss the muted voices of the grandchildren.

Traffic moving along the freeway that borders this apartment complex fades into the background, except for the occasional semi. Without looking out the sliding glass doors (the only window in this studio), my senses tell me almost instinctively what time it is. Evening darkness and steady noise point to the 7pm to 1am travel of city-dwellers and suburbanites. When I awaken in the night a hushed stillness indicates a sleeping community, the highway nearly deserted. Soft morning light and limited but growing noise signal early commuters avoiding rush hour traffic.

Despite the delightful meal and my comfort in this living space, evening is difficult. This is when I most wish to turn back the clock to when evening meals were shared by two, the life I had before my husband died. One of us cooked; the other did dishes. In the oasis between dinner and sleep we returned to the kitchen table for a game of Scrabble, or settled into rocking chairs to watch a movie. 

Decades ago (before we married) my husband and I were not surprised to discover Myers-Briggs assessments categorized me as an introvert. After nearly 1000 days a widow, there is a shift as the woman that is me slides closer to recluse. The grey kaleidoscope of living alone is slowly becoming my normal. The shapes and sounds and tastes of life are dulled by loneliness. 

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted
    and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Ps 34:18

Perhaps that is why I took the photograph... to capture the colors and vibrant promise of the meal, to embrace delight, to remember the Lord is close.

Rw