The renaming of the 4th of July has begun. No longer Independence Day, but renamed Havisham Days in honor of the wedding-attired dollface to which all the widows feel a kinship.
Why the change? This Independence Day holiday marks ten years since The Norwegian’s fateful hike with death in the mountains of Colorado. Those who watch their beloved drop dead learn to embrace the morbid, the grotesquely curious and the dark humor that fills the void. Havisham Days it is.
‘Tis fitting after all. I do rustle about a condo, thank goodness now newly furnished, with nary a companion but Skittish Tabby. I have my wedding dress. I eschew all attempts at grappling for my attentions from gentlemen, and, as any good Dickens character might, I suffer. Can you see my hand laid across my furrowed brow? Be a dear and bring me my fan.
Havisham Days fits the twisted humor presented with death. Find the humor or wither. Fact. Besides, it is funny that as I sat holding my beloved’s hand, praying for God to breathe life into him, thousands of ants nested in my shorts only to make their appearance later when dear friends suggested a bath. There is humor in the fact that The Norwegian wore an Armani suit and Tommy Bahama sandals to his wake. Why not find humor in widowhood. Havisham Days–makes sense now, non?
It’s akin to any summer celebration–Beef Jerky Days, Rodeo Days, Bonaroo, Coachella or Summerfest. Don’t forget the turtle races in Longville, Minnesota. Fun to be had. Now the gruesome has a place to go; a celebration all its own with a deep-seated meaning brought to us by our heroine.
“I’ll tell you,” said she, in the same hurried passionate whisper, “what real love is. It is blind devotion, unquestioning self-humiliation, utter submission, trust and belief against yourself and against the whole world, giving up your whole heart and soul to the smiter—as I did!” There’s grief and then there’s grief–am I right?
Some say, “Move on. Meet someone new. Find a new love.” First off, ladies, where is the guy who wants nothing from me, agrees my dead husband was the best guy ever, has mad skills and goes home to sleep in his own bed? Pfft.
My dates have been with a man who requested I be his mistress, a guy who said his profuse sweating was because I was too pretty, a smooth talking cowboy who may or may not have had a wife and daughter at home, and a guy who said, “Answer me now,” in a text. Um, no.
Havisham Days it is. The weekend will be spent with the chickens, all of them, not perched in one place since before COVID. Baby Pea has a little one on the way and we are traipsing to a cabin in the woods of Washington state. Not sure about the woods, but I do know the company will be superb.
Like another fictitious character once said, “It’s the Havisham life for me.”
Get it? From Pinocchio, when Honest John says, “It’s the actor’s life for me!”
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