Baring Witness by Holly Welker

Author:Holly Welker
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University of Illinois Press
Published: 2016-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

Departures

BERNADETTE ECHOLS

Our strained and stoic goodbye hung awkwardly in the air by the back door before joining the billowing clouds of dust he churned up as he went rumbling, storming, careening down the dirt driveway.

Long, drawn-out days of sorting through belongings, of packing and throwing away. Of trying somehow to sensibly end a life together. Dealing with the baggage: the pain, the regret, the despair, the anger, and yes, the love—what remained, too injured to heal, too feeble to hold together what was plainly dead.

When the moment finally came, after months of awaiting its arrival, the departure was swift, empty, eerily silent, and still … not over.

I imagine the last goodbye between my cousin and her husband must have lingered in the air for hours, then days. Not in clouds of dust, but in each breath she inhaled thereafter.

His leaving, also long, drawn-out days of trying somehow to sensibly end a life together. The greatest preparation was his, completed in his living. He was allowed no baggage. And when he was gone, there were still boxes to pack, clothes to give away, things to sort, things to save.

His departure, a soft slipping-away—quiet, bittersweet. The “I love you” on their lips a promise that it was still … not over.

Striking, the difference between the death of a marriage and the death of a husband for two cousins, two girls who’d grown up together, not just cousins but friends. Sharp, the disparity between a young Mormon divorcée with four children at home and a young Mormon widow left with six. Immense, the contrast between pursed-lipped pity and open-armed sympathy. Endless, the gulf between a day of public mourning, open weeping, and acknowledged loss versus weeks of lonely struggle by one whose heartbreaking, suffering, and grief went unmentioned.

That first Sunday back at church, the empty space beside me on the pew informed the congregation of my loss. It was not unexpected. They knew. But no one said a word. No one offered even the smallest gesture of concern—there was no quiet smile or an arm around my shoulder. Above all, no one said, “How are you, sister?” or “I’m so sorry for your loss. Is there any way I can help?” or “Do you need to talk?”

Were they too ashamed of what had happened to me to speak of it, or did they imagine I was?

In Sunday school, the attendance role was passed routinely down the rows, checks placed by names. Stunned, I saw that someone had already erased his name above mine. The ward had already moved on. That simple act left me further disoriented for days.

A non-Mormon friend invited me to attend a six-week divorce recovery program with her at her Methodist church. I accepted her invitation; no such program was available in my own church. It was there, for the first time in my life, that I learned that “one is a whole number!”

My cousin’s first Sunday back to church after the departure had been prefaced by priesthood visits and blessings, sympathy cards in the mail, flowers, houseplants, casseroles.

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