I’m not young anymore, and I don’t have the energy to mourn dramatically, publicly. There will be no rending of garments, no scenes in supermarkets where I stand, as frozen as the vegetables before me, helpless to stem the tide of unexpected tears.

Lou and I were married for more than half our lives. I don’t know that I was ever in love with him, at least not in the way love is presented on television, all heat and drama. But I do know that he suited me, and I him. I was never more comfortable in my skin than I was with him by my side. He fit me, you see.

So I don’t tell anyone about my nightly excursions. My daughters would worry about my hip, or my balance, or — well, they’d find something to fret about, they always do.

I don’t tell anyone that at dusk I steal away to the dock, and I stand at the edge of it. I choose dusk because the water is still, and the colors of sky and water are practically indistinguishable, both a misty greyish blue, the color of mystery, of possibility, of magic.

And I close my eyes and imagine jumping off the dock and surrendering to the water, not fighting for air but easily, gracefully making my way to the sandy bottom, where Lou is patiently waiting.

written in June, 2008