The left side of the bed where my husband used to sleep remains neatly made, hardly a ripple disturbing the quilted surface. I sleep on the right side each night, where I had slept the twenty-plus years we were together. With time, I developed a habit of reading in bed. The left side remained neatly made, but on top of the quilted cover a mound of reading material gradually grew. I read about feng shui in the bedroom and wondered was I preventing another partner from entering my life by allowing that pile to grow? Was there a part of me that would rather be entertained by books than another partner?

I sorted through and cleared away my husband’s clothes a few months after his passing, following an inexplicable but strong urge that struck me. Our bedroom was on the second floor, and with his illness, he had not been in that room at least six months prior to his passing. I went through the bedroom like a whirlwind, clearing out every corner, drawer and shoe box, getting rid of anything that resembled clutter or hadn’t been used in years. I cleared all but the barest essentials for living.

At night, I would lie in bed and stare into the dark, feeling the emptiness of the room, as it matched the emptiness in my heart.

When I took off my wedding ring the first time, I put it on my opposite hand. It felt strange to be on a finger where it didn’t belong. I got used to it after a few weeks, but I wasn’t sure what the protocol was for widows and rings. After several months, I took the ring off and put it on my dresser, but then months later, I resumed wearing it again on my right hand.

Switching the wedding band around felt awkward. After several more months, I removed it for the final time, wondering if my kids would notice. My youngest son one day remarked that my ring was gone and I told him I’d put it as a keepsake in my jewelry box. The last time I wore it was two and a half years after my husband’s death.

The first time I went to a social event without my husband felt incredibly awkward, as if I were an impostor masquerading as someone single. Two of my children went with me, but I wondered how many people there, most of whom I knew, wondered about my state of mind since I’d been a widow a scant two months. Did I look happy, sad, ready to cry? Inside I was shaky and struck with inadequacy, as if half of me was missing and the remaining half didn’t know how to act. I certainly didn’t want anyone’s pity, but I had this crazy notion people were feeling bad for me. I didn’t stay long, but somehow I felt it was important that I had gone.

My first lunch by myself I slipped into the diner booth hoping no one would notice me. I sat there self-consciously, wishing I had brought something to read so I could keep my head down, my own way of hiding. I had gone in there just to see if I could do it by myself, a test, if you will.

As I waited for my food I looked at the television showing the weather, the other patrons, and out the window at the rain. My food arrived and later when I walked out of there, it was like I’d cleared a monumental hurdle and taken another step forward.

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