Origin Story

In my 71st year, going into my third as a widow, I decided to join a newly formed literary discussion group at the local library on Saturday afternoons.

It was a step out of darkness, away from the mourning, then grieving, first for my husband, then for my mother ten months later.

I had not understood—how could I have known—that recovering from three years of caregiving had to come first, the relentless focus, the exhaustion, the useless fight against the tides carrying my loved ones to their inevitable end.

The effect on my body, mind, and spirit was brutal. The effect on my heart—shattering.

Yet my survival instincts told me to do something—anything—for myself, even if I wanted to remain squarely in the comfort of memory. I got this offbeat idea in my head to reclaim my liberal arts education.

Thus, the library group. I had set aside my own reading and pursuit of intellectual inquiry upon entering the legal profession, promoting my practice, raising two stepchildren and our two together-children, building a home and the family life within it. And it was wonderful, full of life, love, and joyful activity.

I attended the first session with the anticipation of the college girl who once was me. I read the assignments in advance for the January meeting, Thoreau’s Civil Disobedience and Dr.King’s Letter from the Birmingham Jail, forgetting for a brief time that grief was a given on my daily schedule.

I enjoyed meeting the attendees, like-minded in their intellectual curiosity and committment to civil discourse. At the end of the monthly meeting, we planned for the second one, and briefly introduced ourselves.

The gentleman sitting across from me described himself as a psychotherapist, photographer, and writer. Something about his gentle voice and demeanor calmed me. I strained to listen carefully to his softly spoken, thoughtful remarks on the readings. At the conclusion, I blurted out to him, “Nice to meet you, hope to see you next time.”

I felt a stirring of enthusiasm as the meeting ended and looked forward to the next one. I might be able to get through this third winter by living month-to-month, instead of just day-to-day….even if I wasn’t ready to look towards an uncharted future.

I had never thought I’d get there, looking with positivity to the month ahead. A small but important victory.

The psychotherapist—David—didn’t show up for the second meeting. Yet the group itself carried me forward. Something was changing in me. I opened myself to a sweet feeling of hope, in others, in myself.

At the March meeting, he walked in and immediately chose the seat next to me.

I thought the subject matter—four of Plato’s Dialogues—to be turgid, and had read only two. The discussion moved along vigorously nevertheless. Most in the group agreed to meet afterwards at an Italian restaurant for an early supper. As our informal procession wound its way downtown at winter dusk, church bells rang as if on cue.

I sat at one end of the long table. David found the last seat, at the far end. We weren’t in each other’s sight lines or hearing range during the meal.

Before dessert, the person next to me had to leave, and within moments, David took his place.

I continued with the animated conversation with the folks at my end of the table, at the same time noticing the quietly patient gentleman next to me. But he didn’t break into the conversation—and after five minutes, he moved to get up.

I put my hand on his elbow and said, “Don’t leave yet.” My words—or my touch, expressing recognition—perhaps enough to make him reconsider.

Soon after, everyone got up, not quite in unison but close enough.

One explained, “Meeting some friends at seven.”

Another, “See you next time, this was great.”

A third, “Have to pick up groceries before the market closes.”

And within minutes, we were left alone at the table for ten. We moved together to a high top table near the bar, as if we were a couple. That sweet feeling astounded me. It just happened, naturally.

He politely asked if I had time to stay, not assuming anything. I replied, “These were my only plans, to come to the meeting.”  I would have otherwise gone home. I had no one to account to. No one was expecting me there.

A fact of my life now, after forty-one years of marriage.

We ended up going to a movie, an unusually creative animated feature film from Brazil. When we parted at our vehicles, he asked me for my contact information. Being a member of the group, I trusted him.

Even before I walked through my front door, a text from an unidentified number appeared. “I enjoyed your company. Would you perchance be free next Friday?”

I was surprised. But at the same time open to surprise. I called up a friend and asked, “Marcia, have I actually been on a date? And have I been asked for a second date?”  

After all, the last time I dated was before I was married. This was my first date in forty-five years, at the age of seventy-one.

Her answer, something like a quick “Hell, yes!”

But I had plans to visit my daughter in New York that next weekend. Second date would have to wait. I was unfamiliar with modern protocols. Would the nice gentleman think I was “ghosting” him, a term I had heard from my senior friends navigating online dating?

Soon, we met for dinner and a movie on Friday nights. Then Saturday too. Then Sunday afternoons, to an art museum, or for a long walk, one time to a sculpture park in New Hampshire with steep and hilly wooded trails, an unusual venue. David took photos of me standing by some of the sculptures.

We each took our time navigating the relationship. I carried my husband’s heart in me. David carried pain in his heart from a devastating breakup.

Even at this age, I felt no rush. Healing was taking its time, through many seasons.

All those in bereavement find out that there is no timetable or roadmap. Grieving has its own integrity, in its own place and time, apart from the reality we otherwise know. As does a difficult breakup, after many struggles, regrets, second-guessing, hopes unfulfilled.

It’s two years later now.

I look for decency, honesty, reliability, generosity, they are all there. I am comfortable with building a relationship over time, secure that the essentials support us in our journey.

Some ask if we’re planning to move in together; after all, it’s been over two years. I always answer that I feel something important happening in deeper ways for now. Four miles between houses is practically living together anyway, but with valuable aspects of independence preserved. David is an introvert, requiring his replenishing downtime. That’s why he didn’t barge into the conversation at the restaurant, it’s just not his way. I am an extrovert, thriving on my social uptime.

A relationship in transition. Weekends will merge into weekdays in due time, and places will have no bright lines sometime in the future, as we step into the river of time flowing forward that is meant for us.