I stare out to the sea as I sit on a wooden bench perched on the highest point of the island. The clear blue sky seems as infinite as the sea below it, both stretching on forever in the horizon as though in hopes of finally meeting somewhere in the middle. Though the view is overwhelmingly beautiful, I feel stretched out myself, my heart hopelessly reaching for something I will never grasp again. The salty breeze cools my sun-kissed skin, my blue cotton dress flows, softly caressing my legs. The emerald waves crash into small caves down below in an omnipresent, far-off rumble. The sand-colored cliffs seem to soak up the stifling heat. Will I ever find my home again? “Home is where the heart is,” they say. My heart is nothing more than a dull ache, hardly fit to call home.

He died nearly three months ago, but I am not a widow. It seems so absurd and unfitting for a thirty-three year-old, successful businesswoman to be associated with such a term. Widow, widow … aren’t they supposed to be the bitter old hags of fairy tales? The ugly, wrinkled ones whose only purpose is to add eeriness to the tales. Even so, saying I’m single feels worse, like I failed at something, when really it had all been going so well. We were so truly happy. It’s not as though I’m single because no one wants to be with me, or because I’m one of those workaholics who doesn’t know what a work-life balance feels like. It isn’t that I have commitment issues or can’t figure out how to share someone’s life. I did it all. I did it right. I found my happiness, my true love. Life simply, cruelly, robbed me.

I definitely don’t want to be thought of as single. I barely feel single, in truth. My fingers still mindlessly toy with the rings I haven’t been able to take off. Able to, wanted to … The truth is they bring fewer questions, especially now that I’m a stranger in this village where nobody knows my story and few speak my language. Men who are interested in me walk away when they spy the jewelry. People don’t think to ask me about my love life. I think they would rather assume I’m happily married, are content with the explanation. Sad series of failed dates and complicated boyfriends make for more interesting stories, I suppose.

What’s more, I can’t feel single when I still feel him. He’s all around, constantly with me. In my thoughts. In my heart. When I planned his funeral and burial, I kept picturing the conversations we would’ve had going over all the details, like we used to.

“How can we spend so much money on flowers?” he would ask, hovering over my shoulder as I sat at the kitchen table working on my computer. “It’s insane! I’m not the king or anything, do I even need flowers?”

“Of course you need flowers,” I had replied to my imaginary husband.

“I want everything to be beautiful and tasteful. Besides, you deserved all the flowers.”

“But I won’t even know they’re there! You should save your money: No one will notice that you didn’t buy a ridiculous amount of flowers. I promise you they won’t, honey.”

“They will definitely notice if there are no flowers at your funeral! I want everything to look nice for your last goodbye. I want people to feel you were loved … Trust me, babe, they won’t think of how much money I spent on this, but they’ll definitely think I cheaped out if there are no flowers at the service. I want the focus to be on you, not the flowers, and for that to happen, there have to be flowers, so people don’t notice there are no flowers.” I’d heard myself speaking too fast, but hadn’t been able to help it. He had to understand.

“Wow,” he’d respond. “I didn’t get any of that.” He would have blinked at me comically, like he always did when he thought I was exaggerating. “Ok, get flowers if it’ll make you happy, but don’t pay so much for them, please.”

He would wrap his arms around my shoulder until I could almost feel his embrace, and I ended up dropping the order down by half. He was right after all: I was going overboard.

I’m not going crazy. It’s not like that. It’s just my grief. I bet if I were to ask a shrink, they’d tell me something along the lines of: My mind is making conversations up from past memories, to help me cope. Maybe that’s what they are: a healing balm to my broken heart. Maybe he really is sticking around. Maybe it’s my fault for not knowing how to let him go. Maybe it’s everything.

Widow. What a strange word.

The day after the burial, I stood in front of the mirror in our bedroom. I had been wearing his old t-shirt to bed ever since the night he had died. It was almost like having his arms around me. Almost. I could see my hair was still slightly curled and tangled from the updo I’d attempted the day before but had only half taken down before collapsing into bed, exhausted. My eyes were red and surrounded by dark shadows. Standing in the morning light, I said the word out loud to my reflection for the first time.

Widow.

The sound of my own voice was startling.

Widow.

The word didn’t have any meaning.

Widow.

It rang so empty.