Arrivals
The women are always the first to arrive. Because they know, and they understand. Even before the coroner, before the long black van from the funeral home, the one with the gurney in the back, to take what is politely called “the remains” and more accurately called “the corpse.” Before all of them, the women arrive. Not family, but the village women. For they are always the first, and the last to know.
The first woman, living just next door, brings sadness and comfort. Her family and the woman’s family have been friends for a long time. She knew the deceased like a brother, and, through tears, is already forming the words she will speak at his memorial. The word travels fast - faster than the speed of light. Across the street, the woman sees the hearse and knows what has happened. She heads into her kitchen, knowing that the influx of people arriving over the next few days will be too much for the new widow to handle alone. And she makes her best comfort food to bring over.
The word travels, and another friend arrives. It takes her longer because she had to make sure her youngest is taken care of before she can come. She knows the importance of not having to worry about little ones that would not understand. The nurse is here, he was here before all the rest. He sits quietly, watching as the women circle their wounded, weaving a protective shell around her. It is this shell that will sustain her for the next few days, weeks, months, whatever she needs. The second friend seeks out the son, now fatherless, to provide comfort for him as well. She knows the son as well as the mother - her boys and the son have played together for years. She spends most of the next hour just sitting with the son, playing video games with him. She is quite good at that, and she knows there is comfort in the familiar when you’ve had a personal armageddon. She peeks into the laundry room and, seeing a huge pile of unwashed laundry, starts a load in the washer. There are many loads that will need washing, one or two at a time.
Now the third woman arrives. She has known the woman the longest - before there even was a husband to die. She had been traveling to visit him before he died, but arrived an hour too late. Introductions are passed around, and she joins the weaving. She was there when they were married. She was there when their son was born. Now, she is here when her friend’s husband has died. She brought flowers, fresh from her garden, to cheer him up. Now, they are the first of the funeral flowers to come.
The phone is ringing now. Not frequently, but conveying the message - “I heard. I’m on my way.” The woman who took care of the son as a baby, who now has two small children of her own, comes from over two hours away. That she had just had abdominal surgery the month before does not matter. She knows she needs to be there. She drops her own two girls with her husband and continues on, making the pilgrimage to the place of her youth. She is younger than the other women to arrive, but even so, she is part of the clan. She adds her threads to the weave.
The men from the funeral home arrive, and the widow retreats to the kitchen - the center of her house. The men, in dark suits and white shirts, hair neatly combed and faces appropriately somber, speak to her in low, soothing tones, explaining what they will be doing, and asking only the most necessary of questions. Name, birthdate, social security number, address, will there be embalming for viewing? She gives him the information. Name, birthdate, social security number, address, no, no embalming or viewing. He is to be cremated. She hears the noise of the others getting the gurney ready, and someone moves to slide the pocket door closed so she does not have to watch them carry her beloved husband down in the bag, on the gurney, dead. Someone makes sure that the son knows what is happening. He is only 14, and will miss his father greatly. He already is. They ask if he wants to see his father one last time, but, like his mother, he shakes his head no. He was there when it happened. He does not need to look at death again. The van drives off, taking the body with it.
More women arrive, more food, more conversations, more condolences. These later-arriving women, seeing that the widow has her friends around her, nod and retreat. They will hug their husbands a little longer tonight, thankful that it is not them going through this. The hearse, and the men leave. The hospice nurse leaves, after making sure that the widow is in good hands. He gives his number to the first two women that had arrived. He will come back and talk to the widow more tomorrow.
More phone calls - to far-flung family, on the other coast. They will be there as soon as they can. The brothers for sure, the sisters-in-law, probably not. It is hard to find flights this late, and hard to pay so much for them.
An orange cat walks sadly through the house, watching the women as they move with purpose. Someone has closed the door to the room where the husband died, and now he must find another spot to rest. He has been at the feet of the husband for the last few days, leaving only for food and drink.
Dinner appears on the big table. A bottle of wine is opened to toast the life of the husband. He was only 52. His wife eats little. Even her son, the ever-hungry teen-ager, seems to not be hungry, but has some as well, if only to keep the mothers around him happy. He retreats after eating to his spot on the sofa, picks up his laptop, and puts on his headsets. He will keep his mind occupied until he can think no more, until the others have left, and then the two of them will cry together.
After dinner, the tone becomes more serious. Who is going where in the next few days. The younger woman has to leave, her children need her and she has a long drive back home. The women decide amongst themselves who will accompany the widow to the mortuary to make the arrangements. Who will check in later, who will be at the ready. Somehow, the dishes get washed, and the food put away. There will be more women over in the morning to make sure there is breakfast.
They make sure, as they leave, that the newly widowed is protected. Stress and exhaustion will carry her to sleep tonight. And there is time enough tomorrow for the other things.