After my summer stint at LAMDA, I travelled all the way north to the end of the Nordland Railway, to a town called Bodo. There I met a widow who busied her weekends singing at a choir and reading the liturgy every Sunday at St. Eystein's Katolisk Skole. I heard her sing Schubert's "Ave Maria," and her voice soared. After which, the organist proceeded to play Bach's Prelude in C Major.
The point is this: I hadn't been to church in a few months, mainly because I had grown tired of the way people handled (no pun on HANDEL intended) the music. I wanted something solemn, more ethereal than the usual guitar-strumming...and that woman made my visit to Bodo meaningful.
She even offered to take me around the town while her best friend, my aunt, attended to her patients at the local Sykehause laboratory. At the end of our walk, she made me the best Apfelkuchen mit Slagroom (combined German and Dutch there) I have ever had in my life.
And then I saw a picture of her late husband on the mantle. She talked about him fondly, telling me that it had been more than two years now since his passing. And then I, with some guilt, thought of my marriage--and what little time we seem to have left--and wondered what the widowed years would be like...and dreaded the time.
She seemed to handle her new singlehood with such grace, poise and character - as though nothing ever fazed her, but clearly, she loved her husband dearly: and hers was the countenance I would like to have, should I be (touch wood) in the same situation...heaven forbid not at all too soon.
I wanted to do her a favour, because her life in Bodo has given me an insight into the next phase of my dance with my B together--in spirit and through the after-life. Hers was a quiet, simple life made of the simple joys of entertaining friends at home, solemn private prayer on most days and communal prayer on Sundays, and the hope of having dinner with a nice man in the future, though she wasn't actively seeking company.
So I taught her how to put on make-up, the kind that didn't clash with one's skin tone or made a woman look desperate for a nocturnal companion. We drove over to the local mall, the GlasHaus, and bought something from Rimmel and L'Oreal. We steered clear of Maybelline because the colours were too bright. Subtlety was the order of the afternoon.
This lady stepped out of my hotel room with a pair of big shades on her hair, a shawl that acted as a summer accent, wide-leg trousers, a thick belt to accent her waist, and her red blouse one button down. Her face glowed in peach coral, her eyes were wide and blended with cerulean eye-liner over dusty rose on her lid and mother of pearl near her brow. She had on some raspberry lipstick covered with shiny lip gloss in pearly pink. All in all, the result was one to her liking. And my aunt's, too.
And my favourite widow in Europe remarked, with her cheeky sense of humour: 'O, ayan Ge--. Puwede na tayong kumanta ng "Like a Virgin" sa simbahan'.
