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January 28, 2004
Widow. Widower. When I look at these words, I start to see others, like "wild"or "flower"—it sounds totally precious, or clichéd, because there's nothing of those other words in the state of loss of being widowed. But if I look at them long enough, that's what I see, and I suppose, ultimately, that is what I felt. As stupid as that sounds, and it does sound stupid to me. I'm not much of a wildflower, nothing prettily fragrant or daintily colorful about me. I am solid, plain, useful, not ugly, and yet in my loss, I see something growing.