I went to Farmers Pick for my usual monthly haul of imported Italian staples because, as a full-blooded Italian, I’m deeply passionate about olive oil quality and pasta brands.
I stood in the bakery aisle holding a package of Almond Biscotti, turned it over a few times, as we do when we are contemplating such a purchase, and then I put it back. There were just too many in the package, and I wasn’t sure if I’d get through them before they went stale.
This is one of widowhood’s challenges, as everything suddenly comes in family-sized portions for people who need to calculate cookie (apples, lettuce, etc.) math, with best-by dates.
An older gentleman nearby noticed and asked me, “Are they not any good?”
I told him they looked good, but there were too many, and I usually make my own anyway.
He nodded knowingly and said, “Yeah. My wife died a year ago, and I still can’t get used to grocery shopping and figuring out how much food to buy without wasting.”
I told him I understood.
He asked if I was widowed too. I said yes. We exchanged the mutual “I’m sorry” that widowed people understand better than anyone else.
And just like that, two strangers recognized each other.
One thing I’ve noticed since becoming widowed is that strangers often feel comfortable talking to me. Maybe grief softens us in ways people can sense. Maybe pain makes us gentler with each other. Or maybe some of us simply develop faces that say, Yes, you can tell me your life story in the cookie aisle.
Whatever the reason, he talked, and I listened.
We spoke about that fog-filled first year, about how time doesn’t really heal grief the way people insist it does.
I told him I don’t think we ever heal from losing someone we deeply love. But over time, we learn how to live alongside the grief, the love, the memories, and adjust to this life we never expected to have.
Since I’m approaching year eight, I reassured him that eventually, the sharpness softens. Not because there’s an end date to the grief (there isn’t) or that the love mattered less, but because we slowly adjust to the loss.
He appreciated that perspective and admitted he was tired of hearing the usual things people say because they think they’re helping.
He didn’t need to expand, as I knew exactly what he meant, because widowed people don’t need or want throw-away platitudes handed to them like discount coupons.
Widowed people only need acknowledgement of our loss and grief. That’s it. It’s that simple.
I told him that there’s no sugarcoating it, “Yes, this is hard. Yes, the sadness will slam into you at times when you least expect it, and yes, it changes you. But you will also still find many moments of laughter, fun and joy again.”
He thanked me and said he felt lighter somehow. Less alone. He decided to buy the biscotti anyway. I told him, why not? Enjoy. You can always freeze them if you can’t get through them all.
And that’s when I decided, why not for me as well. I don’t feel like baking up a batch, and I can freeze them, too.
For that one moment in a grocery store bakery aisle, two strangers carrying the same invisible weight made each other feel a little less alone.
Some days, you leave the grocery store with more than groceries.
Life is strange like that.
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