We are, as I write this, only ten days away from a whole new year and I could not wait until then to share an updated excerpt of something I wrote as time expired six years ago.
“Procul, et de ultimis finibus pretium ejus.”
Writing of the wife whose worth cannot be estimated, St. Jerome’s statement above translated means, “You may go to the ends of the earth to find her equal in value.”
I have written a great deal lately about love and loss, gladness and grief, a beautiful life together and a broken heart as it came to an end.
There are readers who respond that I should move on. Death happens. ‘You had, after all, 50 years of marriage to your wife.’
But I can’t move on. It’s difficult to even move forward. I am trapped, imprisoned. I am not free.
As I write of how a wife of inestimable price, which I had, should be treated – as so precious, so adored, so cherished, so treasured – many, many readers respond that that is not their experience.
What grieves me now far more than my own loss is learning that there are those whose spouse has abandoned them; who rather than reveling in his love they suffer from his rejection; who instead of being told and touched and otherwise tenderly being conveyed that they are beautiful, instead they weep, broken, abused, and besieged by thoughts of what might have been.
That’s what breaks my heart.
And it is in hearing of this hurt and anguish that I wish my mouth were not so in tune with my heart. That I could feel things – love, tenderness, endearment – and not say them. Then tears would not follow. My fingers would not type. My mind would not be so preoccupied with sleep-depriving nights plagued by the stories of the sadness of unrequited love.
But my mind and heart are connected, and the tears as I type yet another story return, because I am imprisoned in order to implore husbands as to how it should be.
I am not free.