Living in a French village as a newly widowed woman

I’ve decided to start blogging.I’m not really sure why. Maybe it’s a way to talk to those of you who’ve tried calling me without getting an answer. I can hardly handle mobile phones these days.

Saying the words “Hi, it’s Nette” feels like opening up an abyss.Because when you ask “How are you?” what am I supposed to say?I feel like crap. That’s the truth.

I’m a widow now.The bodyguard has moved on, and thinking about him which I do 24 hours a day makes me break down every time someone on the street looks at me, or when someone calls. I’m like an open book, and being that way is utterly exhausting.

I try to keep myself busy for a few hours each day, just to get a break. Right now, Marie and I are creating a space for art and antique furniture in Gallery Causses. A restaurant façade in the village needs its final coat of paint, and tonight we’re filming a few seconds for a movie.I’m supposed to descend a staircase with a frightened look, to see if my feeling is right: is there a murderer in the village? In my house? There’s much to be grateful for, and Bengan would have loved to be part of it all.

At the village bakery, they ask: “Cava, Nette?”They mean well.They don’t need to know how I’m really doing but my answer is still tears.Then they say: “Madam, it’s normal.”There are a few widows in the village. One of them told me it’s been five years since her husband passed. She said: “It takes five years to feel normal again.”I panicked and said: “It’s so incredibly hard to keep breaking down in front of people both strangers and friends.”Her reply: “Oh, but it only takes a year to stop breaking down all the time.”

Sometimes I feel like he’s with me. But then I doubt it, and wonder: will I never feel love again?And at the same time I think:You spoiled woman. You had 35 years with a man who almost every day told you he loved you. The days he didn’t say it were probably the days I didn’t deserve it or maybe just days when he, my bodyguard, was being the difficult soul he sometimes could be.

But oh, how I loved him.Wrong. How I love him.

Thank you — all you wonderful, thoughtful friends who bring me food, company, care, distraction, and phone signals.

It’s you I lean on.

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