A Marriage – Friday Fictioneers

 

Friday Fictioneers.jpg

Photo Prompt Roger Bultot

 

WIDOW, she hates that word.

She is still married; the love didn’t stop just because a life did.

The outside world is cold. “Move on,” her friend’s advice her, but she doesn’t want to.

You don’t stop being a parent when your child dies. You don’t stop being a sibling when one goes.

50 years of marriage, such a long time but not long enough.

She can feel him, she can sense him.

“Look, Darling, your Orchid is blooming.”

“Happy Anniversary,” she whispers and then she smiles.

She will never be a widow; she will always be a married woman.

(Word count: 100)


This my entry for this week’s Friday Fictioneers. Often I buy an orchid for special people and beloved pets when they pass away. Over the years I became an orchid collector. One just started blooming, and it made me smile when I thought about the person who I bought it for. That inspired today’s not so cheerful post.

The Friday Fictioneers are held by my blogging friend Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. The 100-word challenge is based on a photograph. It’s so much fun to compare the stories.

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38 thoughts on “A Marriage – Friday Fictioneers

  1. Dear Bridget,

    We did go in similar directions, didn’t we? After 50 years of marriage I can understand her feelings. Very nicely done. No, we don’t stop being parents when a child dies…or even when they grow up and leave home. Lovely story on so many levels.

    Shalom,

    Rochelle

  2. The link between flowers and those we have lost is quite remarkable. My m-i-l had a particularly ugly christmas cactus, ugly in the way that only those plants can be. Unnoticed by us at the time of her final illness it had been producing scores of buds, all of which bloomed on the day of her funeral. It was totally resplendent. You generated some happy memories of her for me with this piece. Thank you.

  3. Well, I am in my 50’s and have been a widow for two years, after 20 years with my husband. We had a fabulous relationship (most of the time 😉 ) and the memories are great – plus they are often my muse here at FF. I feel that holding on and remaining stuck in the past does not serve a purpose. Moving forward is the only way to live. But that’s me. Life is too beautiful to not want to gobble it up with gusto!

    • We all hold on to our past, the good and the bad. It’s called memories. I believe it’s up to each one of us, we are all individuals. It’s very much like in animal kingdom, some mate for life while other’s don’t.

      What matters is the person’s happiness.

      I have never gotten anything but critique from you, so I didn’t expect anything else today either.
      Sorry for your loss.

      • Oh I’m sorry you feel that way. I went back to see if I had inadvertently made negative comments and other than letting you know you had done a typo, all I found was nice comments but hey, that’s all good.
        I agree that all that matters is one’s happiness and that it depends on each person. I was just sharing how I personally live.

  4. One of my wife’s dearest friends lost her husband in mid-December after 38 years of marriage, so this post really hit home with me. You expressed the very sentiments that she shares and the difficulty of adjusting to life without your spouse there by your side. Excellent writing, and as Cindy noted, perceptive.

  5. Your story raises an important question. Is it better to move on, as her friend advises, or to hold fast to what was? I suppose the answer depends on how long ago her husband died

    • I think there are many factors that have to be considered. Age, the state of the marriage, the lengths of a relationship.

      I am in my early 50’s and we will celebrate our 33rd anniversary this year. In a far away future the woman in the story might be me.

      I come from a region in Europe (Austria/Italy) where women wore black for the rest of their lives, after their husbands had passed on, and the husbands went for a daily walk to place flowers on the graves of their wives.

      In the end it’s a choice.

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