At the bus stop this morning, I heard that one of our neighbors died. It was Mrs E’s husband.
He was old, and in poor health already, but that still doesn’t take away the sadness that comes with losing a loved one. Mrs E has always been a wonderful woman to all of our neighborhood kids, and I hate to think of what heartache she is going through right now. She always used to walk him around the neighborhood, him pushing his walker as she walked beside him holding his arm.
My friends this morning told me when the funeral was: Tomorrow morning.
Yet, I don’t think I can go. Not because I have previous obligations of helping out in A’s classroom, because those can easily be broken to attend a funeral, but because I don’t think I can handle it.
Yes, over two years out from my husband’s death, and the thought of a funeral makes me want to run away and hide under the bed. I simply do not want to attend them. Why you ask?
Because I am afraid of breaking down. I am afraid that all that heartache will revisit me. I am afraid to become a crying, sobbing mess. I am afraid to relive every single detail of what happened after he died.
Simply because, I am just afraid.
All I think I can do for her right now is get her a card, give her my condolences, tell her how sorry I am for her loss. And if she’ll let me, listen to her and be there for her as only someone like I can do.
Because I am also a widow.