The Widows' Handbook: Poetic Reflections on Grief and Survival

When one door closes

68 the widows’ handbook When one door closes “M” The door is round and open. Don’t go back to sleep. —Rumi Nick is naked when they storm the door. I struggle to cover him as though he is a virgin in the temple of Vesta. I needn’t have bothered. They brought the sheet—white cotton, meager thread count, standard size for beds and bodies. I sew a sail of that cloth with the needles he left behind. Set him to sea like a chieftain on a boat, Francesca says, but ships won’t sink on city streets. I give him to strangers instead, transfixed until the van’s doors slam shut. I am that metallic sound, a failed provider leaving him in the cold with the thinnest of fabrics, no coin in his mouth. The entry to our home remains ajar for days, a broken yew strewn across the threshold. When that passageway closes, I tell Francesca I am the traitor who deadbolts the door against a husband unfaithful enough to die. What else is there to do when it is cold outside, she asks. In my hand is his band of gold, their archaeological find. I swallow the ring. It cuts through the larynx gone tight in my throat, and in my stomach it turns round, full, and open. ...