Diary of Not a Wimpy Widow

Month: May 2023

  • Vigil

    I have been here before

No more desire to eat
No more desire to drink
Comforted by the warmth of bed

My beloved husband was dying and
I did not spend every minute with him
Too busy trying to keep it all rolling
Calling friends to come see him
Doing laundry for gods sake

While children and friends sat with him

Though in the night I was there beside him
The hospital bed pushed next to ours
So I could touch him
And hear the change in his breathing…

There is that

So now I stay in this room 
On a bright May day
With my dying cat
My sweet boy during the pandemic

No more desire to eat
No more desire to drink
Comforted by the warmth of bed


Kristin Moyer
May 27, 2023

  • Mother’s Day 2023

    Sitting under the snowbell tree--
Around me the patio covered
 With blossoms the color of old bridal veils
The sweet scent rising 

I am remembering the birth of my first child 

Brought into the world after hours of labor
“Hello Tiny Tim!” said my doctor 
And then they bore him away
Not to be given to me until half a day later

And my second baby

Arriving like the whirlwind after induced labor
Laid on my belly as they rolled the gurney 
Down the hallway 
“Welcome to the world, my daughter”
My blood pressure dropping

And no men allowed those days
Relegated to the waiting rooms
20th Century births

The blossoms fall like gentle rain

I pick one up from my lap

It is as delicate 
As lovely 
As mysterious 
As those babies 
Born so many years ago


--Kristin Moyer

  • A Lesson in Dying

    I spend way more time on Facebook than I should, but there are rewards. Today there was a long list of Facebook posts I had made, from previous years. 

    This was the last post on the list, from thirteen years ago.

    “May 2, 2010: Today Bill planted four tomato seedlings. Emma and I went swimming, even though it was 64 degrees.” 

    Bill was in the garden, planting tomatoes. The tumors were growing in his abdomen. He knew he was dying, and that it was very likely he would not see those tomatoes bear fruit. Nor would he eat any of it. But he believed in the future and the goodness of home-grown tomatoes. The cancer slowed him down, but it did not stop him from living. Bill knew he was fortunate, that not everyone could keep going.

    Eleven weeks later on July 14, 2010, Bill died, in our bedroom, surrounded by family, held by love. 

    And in late summer, I harvested the tomatoes that he had planted.

    May 2, 2023