Fashion Statement

For years before he moved in I had managed my home single-handedly.
I was in charge of everything from organising finances, getting the car fixed, wiring the electrics.
Now I sit in floods of tears in an effort to reset the central heating. Its not so much that the task is beyond me. It is just that now I am doing the jobs that he had taken over.
I am at a loss to do them by myself. Instruction books on new appliances were his domain. The mysteries contained in the tool box are a reminder of his idiosyncratic passion for DIY. The right tool for every job is there - but where.
His secret den where he stored them - the attic - is still a no-go area for me. Too sad, too poignant, too much of my widow's craziness lurks there in the shadowy corners. The radio, preset to Classic FM automatically bursts into voice when I switch on his Heath Robinson lighting system. Trunks and cardboard boxes conceal the remnants of a lifetime's treasures.
Surprising how a Bluebell matchbox stuffed with screws can blow a hole in your heart.
The simple, everyday tasks once made enjoyable through sharing overwhelm the most. Cooking and shopping for food are cases in point.
Standing by supermarket shelves in a catatonic state is not so much a sign of insanity. It is the realisation that I don't have an excuse to reach out for his favourite ingredients.
The man who whistled as he cooked them, who served the with imaginative flair and savoured their flavour
is no longer here to enjoy them.
Decision-making for solitary eating inspires trauma.
In truth, I feel like I should be wearing a warning notice
round my neck -
"BEWARE ! This person may not behave rationally."
The befuddled attempts at entering a PIN,
the erratic displacement of purchases on the conveyor belt
demonstrates a state of diminished responsibility.
Attempts at casual conversation suggest that
the connections between mouth and the brain
are short- circuiting.
Pleh..lehp...help!
Perhaps wearing "widow's weeds" or a black armband
is not such a bad tradition after all.
It wouldn't be necessary to wear it all the time, just on the days
when the madness lingers near the surface.
It would signal that the person inside them
is feeling particularly lost, distressed, - that their behaviour
may be unpredictable.
It might prepare folk for the distracted response
when asked a clear question.
It would afford the opportunity for them
to cross the road to protect themselves from potential embarassment
- or see it as an SOS, a need for
patience and understanding.
When the armband is on, everyone would know -
Nothing, absolutely nothing feels as important
as the loss of that special, irreplacable one.
How is it possible that in spite of this fact,
each day continues to dawn as usual ?
The world moves on
as if nothing has changed.