Widowish: A Memoir(36)
Sophie took her attention off the radio and glanced at me. “Mom, it’s fine.”
“You’re sure? Because if you’d rather I stay home with you—”
She raised her hands in the air, exasperated. “Oh my God! It’s no big deal. Do it. Take a writing class. I’m fine with it!”
I don’t know if I was looking for an excuse to get out of it or just making sure she was really OK with my being gone. I asked myself, WWJD. Hun, Joel would have said, do it. You have no excuse not to.
So I signed myself up to join Leigh’s writing group. Every Thursday evening for eight weeks, I drove up the hill. I’d park my car, take a deep breath, and climb up the stairs that led into the house.
The class was composed of about eight people; all were nonprofessional writers. I was the only one who had ever earned a living from my writing, and unfortunately, my worst qualities came out. I was a snob. What could I possibly learn from people who only write as a hobby? I had no patience. You mean every single person is going to read what they wrote? Out loud to the group? And I have to actually pay attention? And I hated reading what I had only just written. It hasn’t been edited yet; it won’t be any good!
But halfway into the first class, my reservations slipped away. When we went around introducing ourselves that first night, I told them that I was a widow. They reacted in a way that was becoming familiar. I could see them trying to process this information, their smiles fading. Did she say she’s a widow? And then the questions came. How old was your husband, if you don’t mind us asking? What was the cause of death? Then the gasps, and condolences, hands on hearts, a few tears were wiped away (including mine), and then we moved on.
Each session started with a five-minute meditation. I didn’t mind that. I would try to conjure peaceful thoughts and quiet my mind. I would breathe. Over the course of the first few weeks, I let go of my preconceived ideas about the group. They had interesting things to say. Most could actually write. Anna, the group’s founder and facilitator, created such a warm and nurturing space, it felt womb-like. I felt a part of something. Something that had nothing to do with being a widow, or a mom, or even a “professional.” This was something that was just for me. Just for fun.
Writing was a way back to myself, and the writing group became integral to my well-being. I loved it. The group was supportive and encouraging, the antithesis of what it was like working as a screenwriter where you always felt disposable, underappreciated, and anxious, regardless of how successful you were.
In Anna’s group people were writing poetry. Personal essays. Short stories. Romance novels. And I was able to tap into a creative well inside my mind that I forgot existed. I wrote stories and made up scenes. I created characters and built an entire world inhabited by people whom I gave lives to, with children and homes and cars and hobbies. It was exhilarating. Anna’s class was the one activity I had planned for myself every week, and I never missed it. When the first eight-week session ended, I signed up again for the next, and the next few sessions after that.
Life was still surreal, but Sophie and I were moving forward. In the tiniest of steps, we were making a life without Joel. I encouraged Sophie to look for him every day, to find him when she needed him, to talk to him. I wanted her to know he was with her, always, and would always love her.
“Daddy loved the Clash,” she’d say after reading our nightly passage.
“And the Who,” I’d add.
“He looked like Pete Townshend,” she’d say.
“And some people thought he looked like Ralph Fiennes,” I’d say.
“Who’s that?” she’d ask. So I’d pull out my laptop, and we’d go down the rabbit hole of Google images, searching, searching, searching for Joel.
I talked to him every day, mostly asking him the same questions: Where are you? Are you still here? Are you OK?
Around this time, I also started to get rid of some of Joel’s things. It was painful seeing his clothes hanging in the closet next to mine. His toothbrush in its holder on our bathroom counter. His sandals in the basket by the front door. These were constant reminders of his permanent absence. So slowly, I started to assess his things.
Losing Joel cemented the idea that things we give such value to are really, truly meaningless. Joel lived. Joel died. And when he died, he took nothing with him. Nothing.
Not his iPad. Not his beloved record collection. Not even his wedding ring.
He took nothing. Because of this, I wasn’t particularly attached to the “stuff” left behind. So when I was going through his things, I made piles. Things I knew I wanted to keep for myself and/or for Sophie, and things I wanted to give to family. I liked that people close to us would have something of his. Just like telling everyone that I was a widow, giving away his things kept Joel alive.
My nephew got a casual sports coat and some sweaters. I gave Joel’s sister, Andrea, some more of his clothes for her husband and son. Both Hal and Nancy got some photos and other personal things, but it was hardest for them, to see what was left behind. Joel’s friends were thrilled to come over and shop his record and CD collection. I loved having his friends over to reminisce with. One thing that surprised me was the amount of guitars and music equipment I found in the garage. Joel liked to strum on the guitar we had in the house, but I had forgotten about all of the other stuff that he had from his band-playing days. There were acoustic guitars, a few electric ones, amplifiers, pedals, chords, even some tambourines.