The word has always held meaning for me. But I am hesitant to assume that is does for others as well. My aunt described crones as being elderly women, steeped in wisdom. Their experience had aged them like a fine wine, one that cannot be rushed. A brief search on wiki offers two incongruous choices. One is of sagacity, which is the meaning I embrace. 

It was my great luck to spend an afternoon with eight such women. This is the second such opportunity to land in my lap this month, and it was delightful. Each crone told about her late husband, the partner of a lifetime. They brought pictures, some when their husbands were young and dashing, others when gray hair took the place of black. 

One woman spoke of the strain of his travel for work, and raising children without his help. It went without saying that there were no texts, or video chats to lessen the loneliness. Another woman talked about her time as a dance instructor, and after a successful career decided to explore ice skating. She found herself sprawled on the ice, and looked up to see a man standing over her on hockey skates offering to help her learn.

There was a couple that had gone on many cruises together, and enjoyed those vistas. There was a marriage that began as a very reluctant blind date in college, but they laughed so much they kept going. One woman described how they had moved to be closer to the ocean later in life, but the strain of being far away from family was too great, so they moved back. Now he is gone. As it happens one woman taught me in college, and remembered how I used to do hand work in her class. I remembered her exquisite smocked dresses, which I bought for my twins when they were small. She still makes jam that everyone raves about, though it is no longer from her own raspberry bushes.

Several wives had been widowed more than once, which breaks my heart. One husband was only in his forties when he left her bereaved. Another widow described how her second husband's advances at first startled her. Marry again? And yet as they sat together for meals at a church retreat, his company became welcome. 

They all had stories about their brittle bones, and the nuisance of inhabiting bodies that no longer behave. The woman who paints breathtaking landscapes of streams surrounded by flowers has trouble with a healing wrist. 

I brought fruit, and dessert to entice them. No one mentioned gluten or avoiding sugar. At their age, what's the point? 

As I washed up the tea cups I thought about what it will be like for them in a year or two. 

I smiled to think of them dancing and laughing with the husbands whose hair has grown dark again. Plus there will be incredible gardens.