Yesterday, after a morning at the beach with both kids and their grandmother, we took the scenic route home in an attempt to get Pietro off to sleep. He resisted but we ended up near the cemetery where their grandfather is buried. Alice insisted we go and say hello, so in we trooped to pay our respects. (As a slight aside, many grave stones in continental Europe have photos of the deceased on them. To begin with I found this slightly disturbing, but now I quite like it. It enables you to picture the person, whether you knew them or not.)
Back at home, I had a late lunch with the grandmother; the first time we'd been alone like that. I decided to tell her that my husband also died in 2009, the same as year she lost her husband. I assume that she already knew something of my story but I'm not sure. Regardless, it felt like the right thing to do at that moment. We exchanged stories and shared our experiences of death and bereavement as best we could with my limited Italian.
I don't tell many people my story anymore. Partly because most of my friends already know, but partly because it's not what defines me as a person. It's no longer need-to-know information. But I was happy I was able to tell someone yesterday, someone who understands too. Strangely, later that evening I found myself dining alone with the housekeeper – again, the first time that has happened. During the conversation she asked if I was married. My usual response is no, but last night I also told her my story.
It felt good sharing it with women. Not that men don't understand, but I find a lot of men don't know what to say or how to respond when I do tell them. With these two women, I felt like it was a bit of female bonding. It maybe helped them to understand why someone my age was doing what I'm currently doing. And, if they already knew, maybe it meant there was no longer an elephant in the room, which is what my former boss told me when I confessed everything to him. He already knew my story but hadn't known how to acknowledge that fact to me. Actually, it was definitely female bonding because at about 22.15 there was a knock on my door and I was invited to go and have some gelato with the two of them. The three of us sat around the kitchen table and polished off the ice-cream together. It reminded me of the midnight feasts I used to have with my sister and good friend, Margot. It couldn't have been more girly and an appropriate end to the day. I love you Tim – you have opened more doors for me than you could possibly imagine.
Back at home, I had a late lunch with the grandmother; the first time we'd been alone like that. I decided to tell her that my husband also died in 2009, the same as year she lost her husband. I assume that she already knew something of my story but I'm not sure. Regardless, it felt like the right thing to do at that moment. We exchanged stories and shared our experiences of death and bereavement as best we could with my limited Italian.
I don't tell many people my story anymore. Partly because most of my friends already know, but partly because it's not what defines me as a person. It's no longer need-to-know information. But I was happy I was able to tell someone yesterday, someone who understands too. Strangely, later that evening I found myself dining alone with the housekeeper – again, the first time that has happened. During the conversation she asked if I was married. My usual response is no, but last night I also told her my story.
It felt good sharing it with women. Not that men don't understand, but I find a lot of men don't know what to say or how to respond when I do tell them. With these two women, I felt like it was a bit of female bonding. It maybe helped them to understand why someone my age was doing what I'm currently doing. And, if they already knew, maybe it meant there was no longer an elephant in the room, which is what my former boss told me when I confessed everything to him. He already knew my story but hadn't known how to acknowledge that fact to me. Actually, it was definitely female bonding because at about 22.15 there was a knock on my door and I was invited to go and have some gelato with the two of them. The three of us sat around the kitchen table and polished off the ice-cream together. It reminded me of the midnight feasts I used to have with my sister and good friend, Margot. It couldn't have been more girly and an appropriate end to the day. I love you Tim – you have opened more doors for me than you could possibly imagine.
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