My husband doesn’t want to go.”
“Huh! I don’t think mine will either!” a woman giggles.
I smile, listening.
wanting to smack them across their whiny, made-up faces which happen to be attached to well-dressed bodies,
wanting to complain about MY husband,
wanting to scream at the top of my lungs…
“I want to belong to this group again!”
I want to live in happy, oblivion and complain about…
And laugh at the expense of…
And shake my head at the thought of what
But I don’t HAVE a husband.
When I refer to MY husband
it’s in past tense...always.
I stand there with a plastered smile, seething.
Finally I turn
walk to the buffet
pick out some fruit and decide to top it with whip cream
that is sticking to the spoon
so I bang it,
on the plate
And the plate cracks in half.
I let out a “HA!”
Other woman stare.
The grief-rage having exited my body so appropriately.
MY husband would have had a good laugh over that.
But MY husband is dead.