Writing is life.
I learned that without realizing I was learning it. Six years ago, I began putting words around grief because I needed somewhere for those words to go. With every story I told, something happened. The grief didn’t disappear, but some of its tethers began to loosen.
There is something powerful about telling our stories. A memory carried silently belongs to one person. Tell it to another, and somehow it lives twice as long.
I learned that from my friend Connie.
When Connie was 93, she told me about her wedding to Buck, the only man in her life. She told me about her wedding dress, made in San Francisco and flown to Chicago for a custom fitting. She told me about her father sending her across the country and how grateful he was that Buck was in San Francisco to catch her and marry her. In my opinion, it was Buck who got the catch of his life.
And while she talked, something extraordinary happened.
Connie became a bride again.
I could see it in her face. There was a sparkle in her eyes. Buck wasn’t simply the husband she had lost. For those moments, he was the young man waiting for her. She was the girl in the wedding dress. Their story was alive again.
I miss her terribly.
But I have her story.
And now, so do you.
That has made me wonder how many stories are sitting quietly in the hearts of the women who read Grieving Gardener. Each widow who has read the presale copy of Widow has come back with at least one story of her own to share with me. It’s a beautiful thing.
So I’m asking.
Widows, tell me your story.
It doesn’t have to be beautifully written. It doesn’t have to be long. You don’t need to be a writer. Tell me about him. Tell me about you. Tell me about the beginning, the middle, or the end. Tell me about the day you met. Your wedding. The fight you still laugh about. The thing you miss. The thing that surprised you after he was gone. Tell me about the first thing you did alone. Tell me where you found hope. Tell me where you are now.
Write it because writing gives memories somewhere to live.
Write it because sometimes putting grief into words loosens its tethers.
Write it because another widow may someday read your story and recognize herself.
And then, if you are willing, send it to me at grievinggardenerjoy@gmail.com.
After I read the stories, perhaps they will simply be stories shared between two widows. With written permission, perhaps some will find their way onto these pages. And perhaps something larger is waiting for us that I cannot see yet.
If you send me a story, I will send you a brand new custom bookmark for your trouble.
For now, I’m going to do something I’ve learned to do very well.
I’m going to listen.
Because my widows have stories to tell.
And it is time they had a voice.
I can’t wait to hear from you.
