A fellow member of the Friars Club waved her bony finger at me and said, "You don't belong in that house, anymore. The city is the place for you."
I should have punched her in the mouth. I've never actually hit anyone and I think this would have been a good moment to start. You may be thinking, "Who is SHE to tell YOU where to live?" Well, she's a real estate agent and these baracudas just can't help themselves. Everyone is a property to them.
She waited what she considered a respectable amount of time before she swept in with the ad she's been composing in her head since she heard that Jimmy died:
House for Sale
"Poor Widow has lost her mate and now has no need for a kitchen...who is she going to cook for anyway? One bedroom is plenty...a place for her to lay her zombie-like body after a day of sobbing. Her kitchen table can double as an office where she sits for hours pulling her hair out writing checks for services she never knew she had to pay for, like water.
All furniture will stay because everyone knows after a loss like this it's way too painful to surround yourself with familar stuff. One exception: The ridiculously expensive, yet extremely cool leather chair her husband refused to buy because "Do I have an S on my forehead that stands for shmuck?"
Naturally, the widow got her way and that chair became her husband's favorite. The seller wants to keep it to remind herself that she won that war.
A backyard is no longer necessary for this middle-aged single. After all, she should be perched at the front window just in case someone attractive passes by. Perhaps, she can rub her thighs together for friction and when a spark catches she can run out the front door screaming, "Fire!"
This is far more inventive than placing an ad on JDate or Match.com."
So, other widows - do what feels right for you. I'm staying here with my memories. It's home until it no longer feels like where I should be.