Widowed Bethesda

Widowed Bethesda sits at the windowsill. It is 5:30 o’clock, and it is freezing cold. Especially, Bethesda feels cold as she has just lost her beloved.

The man with whom she saw the golden ages of a thousand lives and theirs is gone. Far from sight but not out of mind, thoughts of him clouded her memory. Thankfully, Bethesda has found ways to deal with the loss.

Bethesda does not feel she is a burden to her kids, who are grown up. She finds herself feeling free again and does not see this an insult to the dead.

Every morning, she gets up early. She is grateful—that she feels childish, her kids are grown, and she lives with her loved ones. Bethesda takes the moments she has alone with the sun to think of hers.

The Birth of Widowed Bethesda

Martin was always the quiet one at school. Most mislabeled him as shy, but Bethesda saw his truth. This brought them close.

Martin was black, and as the only black kid in school, abused. This abuse was out of fear and self-preservation instincts. Bethesda stopped to tell the bullies to stop.

Though she was herself afraid, the words came out without much thinking. Things happened that Bethesda knew not why. Now she knows everything is written.

It is the tragedy of life it must end. For sure, it was a good thing while it lasted. Bethesda does not like to dwell on the past.

Widowed Bethesda and the Epitaph

Even though she is not fond of inactivity, moaning, and remorse, she respects the epitaph. She feels it is their bond that cannot be broken. Therefore, she leaves violets there every Sunday after church.

Bethesda counts her blessings. She is at the last stop on the train of life. She is not one to forget, so she recalls everything.

The days of knowing each other. Then the days of growing into each other. Finally, the days of growing with each other.

Bethesda’s growing never stopped even after husband died. She feels young again, but she will not forget him. This weekly visit and transformation of weight into teardrops does her a lot of good.

Who is Widowed Bethesda?

Widowed Bethesda finds herself in knitting, cooking, and family. The old eyes are not working so well now, so the TV is collecting dust. Worthy of mention, Bethesda lives in a suburban town.

In short, Bethesda is really thankful for this. She has to face neither the quiet seclusion of villages nor the hippies of the town. Somewhere in between, there is a place where people go to church on Sunday, and that place is home.

Things are quiet for Bethesda. No one lifts her up without reason any more. No one will ever compliment her vermicelli like he would.

The Twilight of Widowed Bethesda’s Life

She has been reading the kids their bedtime stories for a quarter. The little devils have caught a cold from all the snowball-throwing. She tucks them in with a meta motherly touch.

Bethesda is back again at the windowsill. She sits on the armchair from which she has as perfect a view of the sunset as she wants. In her warm yet tiny hands, she holds dearly a cup of tea.

Her own children have drifted away with one of these escapades of the sun. She is still young, unlike her. Widowed Bethesda puts down the cup to look at the last rays of the vanishing day.

Who can tell the difference anyway, in this zero-loss world? A sun sets; people set out to find a new one; and they do. Bethesda feels cold now, thinking about all this, so she takes the last few sips of tea.

Home for Widowed Bethesda

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Bethesda loves this day because her sons so tough and their sons spill their beans. Inside, everyone just needs an occasion to make their thanks special.

Christmas came with even more in store. The grandsons have saved up this time to buy her a new cane. On the gift, they wrote, “From Granddad.”

They hope he will be back one day. Yet seeing grandma learn to walk anew with this new cane is enough compensation. How we all learn to make do!

Without him, widowed Bethesda is her own partner. She has her kids, and so financial aid. Besides, she is making something of herself through the grandkids.

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