January 26, 2021
Morning started out at 8 degrees (F) and there is a light dusting of snow on the ground here in my part of Maine. A new President has been inaugurated and a woman will be his Vice-President. Bernie Sanders is lightening things up with his hand-knit mittens that stole the Inauguration “show,” with hundreds of memes flooding social media. I have Bernie perched on my shoulder in my Facebook profile photo. I couldn’t resist getting in on the fun.
But…and you knew there would be one…but what else, and what now? I am heading into Year 2 of Widowhood and the grief of losing my husband last New Year’s Eve has not dissipated. Living alone in the house he built and that we shared does not help. Every room is a reminder of him, and our trips to Italy, a reminder that it’s all gone. The house is cozy, and sunny, and for those bits, I am grateful.
I cook a lot, some days using the kitchen as my Arena, where I try to outrace the other gladiators of procrastination, grief and fear to win some kind of strange contest. Will I ever finish the novel I’ve been writing for years? Will I ever feel whole again, after losing my better half? Will this pandemic ever be over? From science news, it will probably always be with us, or others will come, like zombies outnumbering and devouring us.
I urge on the horses anyway, planning dinner at 7 a.m., making some pasta dish with an elaborate sauce we had in Verona or Venice, my chariot crashing against the walls as if chopping and stirring and standing over the stove was a cure, and resting only when dusk comes. I’ve made it through another day, another race, with only a few cuts and bruises and a chalice of tears shed. I lead the horses back to the barn, feed and water them, forgetting my own hunger and thirst.
Yet there are good memories to soothe the wounds. Our daily walks through the neighborhood on Via Magellano. The pastries are special, even when made by large bakeries and not in the kitchen of someone’s legendary “Nonna.” My husband loved them, had one every day at our neighborhood pasticciera or pastry shop. At four every afternoon, it was packed with people having an espresso and a pastry, or stopping by to pick up a box of them to take home. Dinner would be later. For now, the work day was done. Time to gather, connect and enjoy. Even for the tired “gladiator,” there is la dolce vita, the sweet life.
Pat eating a zeppole, a cream filled pastry.
kate cone writes 