Widow's Walk

Born strong she was
Of heart and mind
She would not, could not
Cry or weep
To do so would make her weak

 

Married long
These fifteen years
To a man who fished the sea
And would not weep when he left
Even though he might not return

 

She had borne to him
Four much loved sons
Though only one remained
No tear escaped her steely eye
As she laid them all to rest

 

Her eyes stayed dry
When her remaining son
Said he was old enough
To go to sea
And be just like his father

 

With no little trepidation
She watched them venture forth
A final wave, they turned their backs
And headed out to sea
And she began her dry eyed wait

 

The minutes turned to hours
And hours turned to days
And still no tears
Wet her cheeks
As a year of days had passed

 

One by one were honored, those the sea had taken
As every name was read out loud
Many tears did fall
For all names but two
A wife and mother wept

 

She stood cold and silent

As the empty graves were filled
Not even when two rough hewn crosses
Were placed  into the soil
Would she let herself break down

 

She stood upon the widow's walk
And the wind whipped around her face
The tang of salt
The ocean spray
One single tear splashed down

 

Once a day
She let a tear escape
As she watched the sea
Forever more
Just longing for a sign

 

The villagers grew accustomed
To seeing her at day
They did not see
The single tear
That would roll down her face

 

And so it went for a span of time
Til one day she did not appear
And the village turned out
To bury her so
Amid a spate of tears
 

Reviews

[C. Johnson]

This has the most wonderful image of a woman living in early San Francisco, with a Victorian that would overlook the haror from the hilly streets. The husband could be off in the East somewhere, trading the ever-valuble spices from the Orient to the Western world. The son could be craving the same spirit of adventure and foreign identity that plagued his father in the warm eastern seas. And what is more, she is left alone in her house to traipse the roof over a broken family, quite unheard of in the 1800's. And in this, she herself loses her identity as a wife and mother, finding it harder and harder to manifest tears for tragedy. However, she has to cope somehow and the single tears that do flow are never remediated until death, and as such, creates a stronger and more devout sense of loyalty to the husband she hardly knew. And after her death of course, the cycle of tears is a torrential flood, because contemporary soceity must throw all their emotions into one sitting, beautifully contrasting the woman who endure's a widow's life of tears.
At least this is how I saw it anyways. Still it was a fantastic read and such novel anachronism. Kudos to you Z and keep at it.

Isaiah Devereaux