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Another friend has been widowed, joining the majority in our circle, and her addition again provokes a sense of injustice. Why does widowhood too often strike in relationships where the would-be widow has not yet become ready to be liberated?
Comes another year, and I’m neither complaining nor bragging, just feeling strangely uneasy realizing I’m older than my president, as well as nearly all other presidents.
I wake up every morning in the certitude that I’m in my own bed, in my own bedroom, and that the only other life around is my husband lying beside me. It’s when we’re traveling that I get disoriented, although quickly enough the changed reality dawns on me. Invariably, our red suitcases sitting at our feet alert me to it.
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