The Kinship of Widowhood
I am in tears.
Not because my car hit a giant pothole that made pink liquid flow from beneath the engine. Not because my tight travel schedule is suddenly up in the air. Not because my non-refundable Air B&B will sit empty. But because of a stranger’s kindness.
After escaping the pothole, I limped my minivan to a mini-mart gas station where some kind folks excavated phone numbers for local auto services. Twenty minutes later my tow guy arrives—grizzly bearded, heavily tattooed, chain-smoking—and tells me he was headed home when he got the call to come help me. I apologize. He says there’s no need to. I can’t tell if he’s agitated, distracted, or sincere.
He hooks my Pearl to the tow truck and drives me and my minivan to a lot chock full of broken-down cars on a skinny road on the outskirts of town. There’s stuff everywhere. And no place to sit. Barely any place to stand. Feral cats weave in and out of disintegrating autos. I ask to use the ladies room—which is also full of stuff and isn’t what anybody would actually call a “ladies room.” But it suffices.
The tow truck driver is not in high gear—but then, he was technically off duty when I called. And while he’s getting around to examining Pearl’s wounds, a young man swoops up on an electric scooter. A teenager. With looks that would have made me swoon when I was his age. He and the mechanic chat. And when he leaves, he says, “I love you” to the man, who reciprocates the sentiment. In fact, they both repeat it. There is no doubt they want each other to understand how deep their love is.
“Your son?” I ask when the young man leaves.
“Yes.”
Finally, Pearl gets the exam—from above and below. And the man gives me a full description of what got bent and what will have to be moved two inches and how the new radiator will then drop into place.
Obviously, this isn’t going to happen while I wait. The man will take me to a hotel. I’ve warned him I don’t travel light. He pulls a small car right up to Pearl’s back lift gate, and we transfer my suitcases, grocery bags, and coolers into the hatchback. I get in the front passenger seat.
On the ride I say nice things about his town. It’s really green. Well kept. I explain that I live out in the country between two towns much smaller than his. And for some reason I find myself explaining that my husband died four years ago, and I just can’t keep up the place by myself.
He says, “And it’s lonesome. You think it will get better, but it doesn’t.”
“You’ve been there,” I say—more like a question than a statement.
He nods. And the professions of love between father and son make absolute sense. They are grieving. And taking care of each other.
And now this man is taking care of me.
“Actually,” I say, “I’m on my way to Michigan because I’m thinking of moving there. To a town.”
He thinks it’s a good idea. Says I’ll be able to absorb energy just being in proximity to people.
“If it doesn’t work out, I can move again,” I say, because I’m a little aghast at what I’m proposing. He assures me that if I don’t do it, I’ll always wonder.
At the hotel, he helps me load all my stuff onto a bell cart. We then exchange phone numbers. He tells me to call him if I need anything.
He genuinely understands. And I am moved to tears.
Thank you for writing this.