The Weight of What's Carried

Elena stood in the pharmacy aisle, staring at the vitamin D supplements. Three months since David's funeral, and she was still taking his grief advice. He'd always told her winter depression was just a lack of sunlight, nothing a little supplement couldn't fix. The irony wasn't lost on her—dead husband offering living advice from beyond the grave, in the form of a white plastic bottle.

She placed the bottle in her basket and moved toward the checkout, her eyes catching on a display of summer hats—wide-brimmed, colorful, everything David would have hated. He'd worn the same beaten leather fedora for twenty years, through their wedding, through diagnosis, through the end. That hat still sat on its hook by the door, a ghost of its owner waiting for someone to wear it home.

The pharmacy clerk was new—young, with hopeful eyes and a name tag that read "Megan."

"Find everything okay?" Megan asked, not really looking at her. Just another transaction in another ordinary day.

Elena wanted to scream. She wanted to say that nothing would ever be okay again, that her husband had died while she was getting them both waters from the hospital vending machine, that the last thing he'd said was that the hat made him look ridiculous. She wanted to say that she couldn't bear another day of waking up to his side of the bed, cold and empty, that the vitamins weren't helping, that nothing helped.

"Fine," she said instead. "Just fine."

She walked out into the rain, letting it soak through her blouse. People ran for cover, umbrellas blooming like mushrooms. Elena kept walking, water streaming down her face, mixing with tears she hadn't cried in weeks. The bear that had been living in her chest for ninety-six days finally roared, and she collapsed on a bench, her basket overturned, the vitamin bottle rolling away.

A stranger stopped—someone's grandmother, with weathered hands and knowing eyes. She didn't ask if Elena was okay. She simply picked up the bottle, placed it back in the basket, and sat beside her as the rain washed them both.

"My husband died four years ago," the woman said quietly. "I still talk to him when I'm alone."

Elena turned to her, really looked at her. "Does it get easier?"

"No." The woman's voice was gentle, final. "You just learn how to bear it."

They sat together as the storm passed, two widows sharing a bench, watching water pool in the cracks of the sidewalk. When the sun finally broke through, Elena stood up. She picked up her basket, walked home, and put on David's hat. It was too big, ridiculous, perfect.