The Last Odd Day by Lynne Hinton

husband’s death, inviting her to speak freely of her life, I knew there was no way that she should be the target of my anger or disappointment. She, after all, had her own losses to suffer.
    Lilly was not the reason for any of my grief or pain. She was only trying to discover her place, only trying to understand from where it was she came, only trying to find peace for herself.
    I had nothing to gain from being rude or unwelcoming to O.T.’s daughter. She was not the cause for the break in my marriage. She bore no answers to my many questions. She was no different than I. We both were simply seeking solutions for the great mysteries of our lives.

10
    Widow is such a lubberly label. Used like a medical condition or an exposition for unsavory behavior, it creates an illusion, a false image in people’s minds that they suddenly think they know all about you. “Oh,” they’ll say, with just the right amount of familiarity and sympathy, “that explains everything.”
    At first it enraged me, then it merely irritated me, but now resolved, I simply use it to my full advantage. “I won’t be able to get that library book back on time,” I’ll confess to the librarian, “because I’m a widow.” And just like that I’m given an extension so that I can read the book at a speed I’m comfortable with.
    â€œWon’t be able to manage that volunteer food drive,” I say sadly to the director of the soup kitchen. “You know,” I say with just the right pause, “I’m widowed.” And quickly I’m forgiven.
    To the person at the bank I report, “Could you please handle all this paperwork for me?” Then I sigh and stare into space like somebody close to the edge. “I’m only recently widowed.” And I don’t have to worry about unwanted phone calls from collection agencies or investment personnel.
    Maude says it’s unfair and very unattractive for a person to use her weaknesses in this way. But I say, “Power to the people!” If they want to believe women are only as smart as they are married or that they lose their ability to create order or make decisions when their husbands die, then who am I to mess with a prevailing perception? Use it, I say, because life offers very few concessions.
    It’s been almost two years since I became the dominant figure in our marriage, since I first had to decide stuff for us, figure out things. Once the strokes started O.T. was no longer very clear or helpful. Dick and Beatrice helped some, but mostly I was on my own to take care of everything. On paper and involving the matters of detail, legal and otherwise, I was organized and even prepared for his passing.
    In my more compulsive and lonesome moments when O.T. became institutionalized, I had taken the notion to get things ready. Power of attorney, safe deposit box, deeds, insurance payments—everything had been arranged and clarified. So that when he did die, there was so little to do I actually found myself bored. And especially with all the permission grief gave me to be slow and unproductive, I found that I had too much time to reflect upon the past and too much opportunity to think about the future.
    Perhaps that’s one of the reasons I was open to this young woman who had only recently made my acquaintance. Perhaps, because I enjoyed the luxury of an uncluttered mind, hours without tasks to complete, I was able to think about the possibility of letting her into my life. The other reasons, I suppose, had to do with common courtesy and understanding that she wasn’t the one to be blamed, the desire to keep O.T. alive, and the hole that his death had left me with.
    I think that if she had come at another time, appeared at a different place along my journey, I might not have made room for her, been as ready for her presence. But as soon as O.T. died, I realized that I was completely alone. I had no one to call