They hadn't, but I still felt comfortable discussing it with him.
At a young age, I concluded that widows were different from other women, set apart, other. Not long ago, I met a man with whom I instantly hit it off.
A friend of a friend, he looked me up when he was traveling through New York from Europe.
Well, yes, of course I loved him, but our marriage was like most: It had highs and lows.
In the year before Frank got sick, we'd gone through marriage counseling and even a trial separation, but there was never any question that I'd be there during his illness.
And one morning, when I left the hospice to feed our cats and make some calls, Frank died.
A chaplain led me by the hand to her office, and I sank to the floor, crying, deeply sad--and guilt-ridden--that I had not been with him at the very end.
When his cancer briefly disappeared, I rejoiced with him; when it reappeared, we despaired together.
I rode beside him in ambulances to emergency rooms late at night.
But I felt torn between feeling very attached to his memory and also taking tentative steps toward a future without him.