Widows Weeds

Wearing black to indicate mourning is an established practice in many parts of the world, although in some places, particularly Asia, they wear white, or even red and other bright colours.

 

It’s apparently an exclusively European tradition whereby widows remain in black til the end of their days. Elsewhere this is expected for only short periods of time.  I can’t help wondering how this everlasting requirement for women to exhibit their loss came about. And what function did it play in bygone eras?

 

The black garb does in some way demand a level of respect; it indicates that the wearer has earned their place amongst the social strata that includes the elderly, community leaders and wise owls.  Was it also intended, during a period of two world wars and the inevitable shortage of men, to mark these women of loss as unavailable?  It could be a clever way to ensure that those who have already had a husband and been careless enough to lose him, do not get the opportunity to take another, especially when so many other women have yet to find their first.  Or maybe the garb is simply a way of giving some status to women whose husbands have died, leaving them with no clear place in society.

 

In many ways, I have worn my own widows garb for the last year. I haven’t dressed differently, I have worn colours other than black and it hasnt been immediately obvious to the stranger that I’m in mourning.  But I’ve worn it nevertheless and grown used to it and I have realised only latterly that I’ve become dependent on it.  Because being broken, being jilted, being a victim, can become a comfortable place to be, a safe role to play. People are mindful of you; friends demonstrate concern; family express care; colleagues quietly indicate their awareness that you’re a bit vulnerable and everyone treats you a bit more gently.   But time moves on, and irrespective of the level of empathy or the depth of loss, we eventually expect people to get on with the daily requirements of life.  And so I find that people have long forgotten my shattered heart and fragile healing.  They all have others with far worse trials to worry about, and besides, I’m one of those people who gets on with it, who copes and strides through life so I’m bound to be Ok. A year on, my woes are but a footnote in my journal; an almost forgotten chapter; a piece of history.

I’m almost ready to step out of my widows’ garb, to let it fall to the floor and reveal the strong and beating heart beneath. But I’m terrified that there  may not in fact be anything substantial there, that the void remains, and the emptiness I feel is in fact evidence of just that.