HOLIDAY MEMORIES OF A DIVORCED WIDOW

  HOLIDAY MEMORIES OF A DIVORCED WIDOW

It was December 11, 2020, a Sunday morning during the height of the COVID 19 Pandemic that I sought hope, enlightenment, joy and meaning in the livestream presentation of composer George Frideric Handel’s Messiah, performed by the historically famous Abyssinian Baptist Church of New York City, in the village of Harlem. Almost instinctively I thought about my ex-husband, wishing I could telephone him and encourage him to watch the performance as well. He would love it I thought. However, this was not something I could do. It was mere wishful thinking; as he had a new wife, and out of respect for their marriage, I never telephoned his home. I did, however, receive telephone calls from him once or twice a month where we were both in tune and supportive of what was happening in our lovely daughter’s life.

I met him when I was a sophomore in college where I was seeking a bachelor’s degree in English and he was a senior in his fourth year of a five-year bachelor’s degree Instrumental Music Program. His instrument of choice was the trumpet. It follows that he absolutely loved music both instrumental and choral and was often brought to tears while listening to music that he thought both beautiful and moving. He had specific tastes concerning his preferred performers when it came to orchestral music; often critiquing several on his “not preferred” list. Finding the preferred performers was a daunting task when it came to musical gift-giving times.

While disappointed that I was not able to telephone him this Sunday morning to alert him to something that I knew he would enjoy, more importantly, I wondered why I had not heard from him in a couple of months.

Eleven days later, I received the dreaded answer when my daughter called to tell me the sad news that her father, my ex-husband, once deemed by me, my mother, father and brother, as family, had passed away. Apparently, I had not heard from him because he was dying a slow death. I never suspected that he was dying. Incredulously, I heard myself repeating over and over, “Oh no, oh no” while also reminding our daughter of how much her father loved her; as their tight bond had remained intact throughout her forty-plus years. As the quiet tears welled up in my eyes, I was reminded of the friend and family that I, too, had lost. After all, he was a good man, a good person whom I had met when I was nineteen years of age. I was now seventy-six and he was seventy-eight. Who knows, had it not been for the cultural differences; he was born in the segregated south, and I was born in the more liberal north; our marriage might have lasted into our seventies.  I was used to activities such as bowling, horseback riding, ice skating, spending days at the beach during the summer and enjoying movies at the local theater during the winter. He, on the other hand, could not enjoy these activities due to southern Jim Crow laws which led him to his coveted trumpet. Moreover, had it not been for our young marriage in our early twenties, and the negative impact of his time spent in the army during the Vietnam War we also might have remained married. For my part, I have since taken on the moniker of a “Divorced Widow” for married or not he was still family!

Five years later, in this holiday month of December 2025, while again listening to “The Trumpet Shall Sound” of Handel’s Messiah, I will be reminded once more of our loss of a beautiful soul gone too soon. I will forever think of him often, but especially at this holiday time of year and any time I hear music of the classical or orchestral nature. I can still picture him directing the orchestra, vocal solos, or choruses with his imaginary baton. May he continue to rest in eternal peace, and just possibly, he is playing his trumpet in heaven or directing a classical musical performance with his imaginary baton.