Posted by: carolyn / through a widow's eyes | December 17, 2011

Pizza Night

Month. Twenty. Nine. How is this even possible.

Our lovely tree is set up in the family room Jeff built, and sparkling with the colored lights he loved. It’s another Saturday, when we would relax after work with a drink and he would start the pizza dough while I sliced vegetables and grated cheese. So many things have never been the same since, and the pizza dough, of course, is only one tiny piece of that. I just don’t have the knack like he did. It would make him sad to know that for Anna and me, Saturday is not always homemade pizza night anymore. But still, we try. We live our lives. So tonight, after work, I will proof the yeast and get out the bread flour.


After I wrote that last wistful bit, A & I went out into the world. There were signs galore. Some days there just are. I never know what to think about this. But I am much more observant of detail than I used to be.

A certain special song was playing in the art supply store – one that I’ve never heard on the radio before, ever. High over my head, a gull was riding the wind, which a medium has told me is him watching over us. The day she told me that, a gull had been hanging in the sky over my head just moments before. And the numbers 7.17 (the date he left us) glowed greenly in the digital cash register display – the previous sale at the bakery where we bought bread. I know: sea gulls are not rare around here. I KNOW this sounds crazy: to see and feel his presence in random occurrences in any given day. I thought so too, til it happened to me.

At the grocery store a woman came up to me. She is also a widow – some months further out than me – and she told me that my last couple of blog posts, about how hard Christmas is. Was. Is. Have helped her. She has forwarded them on to other people, who then said it helped them understand. She is getting a Christmas tree this year, for the first time Since. She is potting bulbs to give for gifts. First gifts Since. We have talked before about how her children are surviving through the loss of their father.

When we arrived home in the damp December dusk, there was a tiny black tarpaper heart on the back steps.

The pizza dough is rising in the bowl.








  1. Thanks, Carolyn. Noel.


  2. I see signs of my mom all the time. She always lets me know that she is by my side, in the toughest of times. Right now I just want to call her. She knows, she shows.


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