Recently John and I were invited to spend an evening with widows and widowers. The group included two of my dearest aunts, and the husband of my late cousin. There was a fellow quilter, and my mother's best friend. One man, however, caught me off guard with his greeting. 

 

"You don't belong here," he said. I think it was simply an observation that both John and I still inhabit our bodies. 

 

I brought four visual aids to describe what their contribution to the marriage community means to me. The first was a flowering poinsettia.

 

"Many people enjoy flowers in their living rooms. They live for a few days... longer if we change the water. But then they wilt. Inexperienced marriage can be like this."

 

Then I brought out scissors and snipped the red bloom. I plunked it in a vase.

 

"But your marriages offer something more. You have grown roots, and like an annual will come back after a hard winter. Not so with cut roses. I adore roses, and I love young marriages. Yet I respect the quality that you bring with your longevity."

 

Then I brought out a block of aged cheddar. 

 

"When I go to the store and buy muenster, my teenage son sometimes complains. He prefers the tang of an extra sharp New York Cheddar. Mozzerella does not have the same zip. Your marriages have aged. In a culture that borders on worshiping youth, I want to thank you for the extra flavor that comes from your wisdom." John sliced the cheese and sent it around with crackers. 

 

Then I showed them a small quilt I sewed this fall.

 

"This is a colorful little quilt. It has never been washed, and still looks new. I am happy with it. But I have a different feeling for the quilt I bought on ebay that dates back to the Civil War." I spread the North Carolina Lily at our feet. "It has torn spots, and signs of wear. Yet for something that is 150 years old, it is marvelous. Your marriages have worn spots too. You have lived through wars and deaths, sickness and loss. Yet your love is still warm and lovely. Thank you for your history."

 

Finally I showed them a tuft of gold wool, the kind used for felting. 

 

"This is incredibly soft, and loose. The fibers are all going in one direction, and it is easy to pull it apart. When I felt the wool, by poking it hundreds of times with a sharply barbed needle, the fibers slowly interlock and become a form." I showed them a felted mother holding her baby. "The wool becomes stronger because of the tangles. In a similar way, your marriages are stronger because of the struggles you have endured."

 

I asked if any of them wanted to share a story about how the difficult times in their marriage had brought them closer to each other. One woman mentioned having four children in two and a half years. Another woman smiled as she told us she had five in six years. Both of them had sets of identical twins. Those are the kinds of details that can leave a frazzled mother of two preschoolers mute. 

 

One man said that the last ten years of his wife's life, the ones when she lugged an oxygen tank everywhere for her emphysema, were ones of deep compassion. They brought unexpected gifts. Another woman talked about the initial weeks after giving birth to a special needs baby whom doctors predicted would not live. She learned more about her dear husband then than in the six years before. Yet another woman spoke about taking care of her husband after his heart attack and bypass surgery. It was hard, without question. But it was tender too, to serve him in his vulnerability. 

 

Others talked about how they are still learning from their partners, continuing to feel their gentle influence. These octogenarians chose their words thoughtfully, wasting no time on self pity or boasting. I do not think they were being heroic when they downplayed the pain. It seemed that after decades of sifted memories, the ones that remained were like the gold left in a miner's screen. 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Jenny Stein

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