“Please. Just think about it.”

I considered his proposal for three weeks.

My son drove in from the city one Saturday solely to sit opposite me and speak plainly.

“You’re lonely, Mom. That is not the same as loving him.”

“I know the difference.”

My closest friend, Marlene, said nearly the same thing, though more gently, while we drank wine on her back porch.

“Grief wears a lot of masks, honey. Sometimes it wears a wedding ring.”

“He was her husband, Marlene. If I don’t take care of him, who will?”

I insisted that she could not understand.

Then I drove home through the darkness, sat on the edge of my bed, and cried without knowing exactly why.

Two months later, I accepted.

The courthouse was cramped, chilly, and carried the scent of aging paper.

I chose a navy dress because white seemed dishonest and black felt like an omen.