For the first year after my wife died, any time I had a conversation, it was full of “We’s”. They would ask about my life, my home or my past and I would reply: “We did…”, “We like…”, “We lived…”.
It was painful. Many times I’d choke up. Too many times, I’d tell the casual stranger that my wife had recently died from cancer. They’d always offer condolences. Some were genuinely sweet and gracious, spending time listening to me or tearing up themselves.
It took four years, but now I rarely say we. None of my regular acquaintances, neighbors and local friends ever met my wife. My life with her has nothing to do with our conversations today. Whatever I do today, “I” do. There is no we anymore. The “we” I have are my memories. Nobody else is interested in them.
Which, I think, is how it should be.
It’s funny because sometimes I’ll slip into my old habit of trying hustle Snickers on our walk home and catch myself before saying, “Let’s go home and see Mama!” I used to say that to Snickers all the time because she’d get excited and race home to see Ellen. I stopped saying it the day Ellen went into hospice because I thought it would be cruel to give me dog false hopes.
I hear other people say “We” all the time. It’s a key indicator that someone is married, or a least coupled up. It’s a natural response after spending so much time together with another person. Occasionally when I hear someone say it, I feel a pang in my heart for the “We” I once had. More often, I want to tell them to savor it – but I don’t – because of how awkward that conversation would become.
I don’t mind being “I” anymore. And it’s no surprise it took me a while to get used to it. I spent more than half my life with my wife as part of “We”.
Today, I finally ran into the Girl In The Floppy Hat and was able to to ask her name and introduce myself. She smiled and said, “We know a lot Steves! That’s a great name.”
We.
It figures.