the bomb

jackie.jpgOccasionally, I will meet a stranger in a line-up or a clerk at the store who notices my oft-perceived masculine purchase of a hammer, a litre of oil or a case of beer. Sometimes, people standing close by will make a comment about my husband and how lucky he is that I'm buying him this case of beer, picking up the oil or replacing this hammer.

When Jeff first died, these comments hurt. They broke me. They reminded me, as if I needed it, that he was gone. Dead. And I was alone.

I felt hurt and angered at these people. I wanted to scream at them that they were not only sexist but insensitive and nosy. So I'd just simply say, "My husband is dead."

They'd stare at me in shock and search my face for signs of jest. I'd stare back with tears streaming down my face wishing they could understand and hating them for not.

Now, I actually find some form of morbid humor in shaming these people into submission. I find it amusing to watch the horror, embarrassment and guilt cross their face. I know I shouldn't enjoy it. But it is kind of....funny.

I don't wear my black veil and dark clothing. I think my eyes have mostly lost their hollow depths. To anyone looking at me, I look like one of them. The 'normal' ones. The intact ones. The married ones. There are no markers to alert someone of the bomb that I carry around. The thing that most people don't want to talk about. Death. Grief. Mourning.

Many people shy from these topics. Steer around these landmines. Avoid discussion of this eventuality.

So when it enters a conversation so abruptly and without forewarning, it's sudden unexpected elephant in the room and no one knows how to remove it.

I find that use of this giant pachyderm to chase away misogynist and preconceived notions is endlessly entertaining.

"What did you do to upset your dog so much that he's on antidepressants? Ha ha ha"

"My husband died."

"Hey Sweet Cheeks! Can I buy you a drink?"

"My husband died."

"I am sure your husband will be able to unplug the toilet with this snake in no time flat."

"My husband died."

Dropping the 'bomb' has it's uses and I am finding it so....perfectly perfect that Jeff is still providing laughter and protection to me in death. (Although I realize that this is most likely a cruel and immature way to get my kicks)... Honey, you the BOMB!


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