The Golden Willow by Harry Bernstein

dying and would recover.
    They were patient with us and tried gently to convince us that this was the end for her. The doctor stood looking down at her and said, “What you are witnessing right now is the soul leaving the body. …”
    I was abrupt with them and made it clear that I did not agree with him and was not interested in his services. In fact, I was furious. I turned my back on him and they left. Now, thinking about it, I wished I had not behaved in that fashion, and perhaps I could have benefited a great deal from what they had to say.
    But there were several similar groups in the area where I lived, which had plenty of retirement communities where deaths tookplace often among the elderly residents. I chose one group that met at a local hospital. There were about twenty people, mostly women, seated around a long conference table in the meeting room, all having suffered the loss of a loved one, and all, I would soon discover, going through pretty much what I was going through. A young social worker by the name of Melissa directed the meeting, and opened it with a brief talk on grief.
    “What is grief?” She spoke softly, glancing around at each one as she did so. I did not need any definition of grief, but I listened carefully to what she had to say. Grief, she said, was a perfectly normal reaction to the death of a loved one. In some cases it was more devastating and lasted longer than in others. But in all cases, it was an agonizing ordeal.
    Time was the best healer. Eventually time would dim the memories and lessen the pain. In the meantime, there were some practical steps that could be taken for the grief-stricken to find relief. Being with others helped. So did sharing your feelings with others. Nor was it wrong to laugh and have fun. Then she said something that would stick in my mind. “Perhaps the best way to express your grief,” she said, “is the way that fits and feels right to you.”
    She asked for volunteers to give examples, and there was an instant response, all seeming eager to talk. One woman said it was her faith in God that kept her going. She prayed daily. Another, a man, said he was a trumpet player and told how he coped with his grief by going to his wife's grave every day and playing her favorite songs on his trumpet. Another, a woman, said that volunteering at the hospital where her husband died and helping sick patients gave her a feeling of comfort.
    I left as soon as the meeting was over, though others stayed on for the coffee and cake and to chat with one another. I wanted to bealone to think over what I had heard. As simple as what I'd heard in the meeting had sounded to me, I realized there was much common sense to it also. And I was thinking of what way to express my grief could fit me.
    There was only one answer, and it came to me immediately. There was my writing. Nothing could absorb me so completely as when I sat down at my desk to put words to paper, however badly I might write. I'd known that a long time ago. So why not now? Why was I hesitating? Perhaps it was because my writing had caused me grief of another sort. There had been nothing but one bitter disappointment after another. Did I want to get into that sort of thing again? I had practically given it up these past few years, busy enough and happy enough with Ruby not to mind or even think of past failures. It seemed that I would do well to think of something else that would fit.
    But then there were the nights, and the nights had a lot to do with my decision to find the escape from the present I was seeking in writing. It had a lot to do also with what I wrote about.

Chapter Nine
1940
    Y ES, THE KIDS WERE GROWING UP, AND ALONG WITH THAT WERE THE problems that come, I suppose, to all parents. Fortunately, we did not have to deal with the sibling rivalry that often comes when a firstborn child is displaced by a newborn member in the family. Charlie seemed to welcome the arrival of Adraenne as much as we did, and