Open Writing

They sat like sparrows along a wall; widows, chirping only to each other. Hiding their insecurity behind arthritic knees and ankles which swell, they made no attempt to mingle. They dare not. 'Widows didn’t push themselves forward did they?' Alone now they feared the edge of conversations. They feared easy interpretation of attempted friendship. Widows must be discreet.

One or two of slightly brighter plumage accepted the proffered glass of wine, most chose water. ‘Widows must not be merry must they?’ They pecked at savouries while their bodies longed for the sweet strength of cake.

The low steady note of camaraderie from the Church Christmas Party flowed towards them, around them. Come join us, mingle it crooned. They could not. They accepted the greetings, unspeaking hugs, jolly come join us pats on the shoulders but they did not reach out for these reassurances of the flesh. They simply smiled and nodded, pleading again an inability to stand on enfeebled limbs.

The others drifted off to bright chattering groups. The widows drew close their cardigans and whispered of the way things were. The way things were in the days before the awkwardness of their bereavement. About the time when they could choose to act as they thought best and not feel this rule of expectation or lack of it. They sensed their growing helplessness but could not rise above it. 'Not like some, that Doris, but then she had always been fast, even as a girl.'

The minister came to greet them, to thank them for all the work they had put into the church fete. He spoke clearly and distinctly as though they were deaf. He patronized without knowing it. They smiled and nodded and remarked on the weather.

They did not stay late; no one expected that they would. No one really noticed when, twittering softly, the little flock fluttered out the door and on to the narrow safety of their own nests.

© Colleen McMillan

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Colleen wites for Bonzer! magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au