The repairman came on a Wednesday morning.
He arrived carrying a small toolbox and a cloth bag for the clock.
I had taken it down from the kitchen wall before he arrived.
For years, that clock had run three minutes slow.
Dwight used to say it was the only clock in the house that understood how to relax.
I had laughed every time he said it.
After he died, I left it alone.
There were so many things that needed attention that I couldn't bring myself to care about three minutes.
Now I wanted it fixed.
The repairman examined the mechanism at my kitchen table.
He asked how old the clock was.
I told him it had belonged to Dwight's mother.
He nodded and worked quietly.
While he was busy, I made coffee and watched the morning light move across the counter.
The yellow dish towel hung beside the stove.
The house smelled faintly of coffee grounds and the lemon cleaner I'd used on the table.
Ordinary things.
I had begun to appreciate them again.
When the repairman finished, he hung the clock back on the wall.
"That ought to do it," he said.
I thanked him and paid the bill.
Then I stood beneath the clock and watched the second hand move.
It was keeping the right time.
I felt strangely pleased.
That afternoon, I called Carla and told her I was ready to go back to the senior center.
She laughed.
"Ready? You've been going every week."
"I know. I just mean I'm ready to enjoy it again."
She understood what I meant.
We met outside the building the following morning.
The same folding chairs stood in the meeting room.
The same coffee smelled as though somebody had burned it.
A few people had left the group, and two new members had joined.
I recognized several faces.
Wendell was there, sitting near the window.
He smiled when he saw me.
I took the chair beside him.
"You look rested," I said.
"I took a day off."
"Look at you, following medical advice."
He smiled.
"Don't get used to it."
During the meeting, a woman talked about how difficult it was to make decisions after losing her husband.
She said she had started asking her adult children before doing anything important.
They were trying to help, she explained.
But she had begun to feel as if she needed permission to buy a new dress.
I looked at her.
I knew that feeling.
When it was my turn to speak, I told her something I'd learned the hard way.
"People can love you and still forget that you're capable of making your own decisions."
She nodded.
I didn't tell her what had happened with Zach.
I didn't need to.
After the meeting, Wendell and I went outside.
The air was cool, and the parking lot was full of cars.
He asked if I wanted lunch.
I said yes.
We drove to a small restaurant nearby and sat in a booth.
He ordered a sandwich.
I ordered soup and a grilled cheese.
We talked about the group and the people we'd met there.
Then Wendell asked whether I'd ever considered volunteering again.
I looked at him.
"At the hospital?"
"Somewhere, maybe."
I thought about it.
I'd retired because my knees hurt and the long shifts had become harder to manage.
I hadn't stopped caring about people.
I'd simply stopped having the energy to care for them all day and then come home to an empty house.
"I might look into something at the senior center," I said.
Wendell nodded.
"I think you'd be good at it."
I smiled.
"You're supposed to say that."
"No. I'm supposed to tell you if I think you're being foolish."
I laughed.
He was right.
That evening, I called the senior center and asked about volunteer opportunities.
The woman who answered told me they needed help welcoming new members and organizing the weekly activities.
I said I'd come in the following Monday to discuss it.
After I hung up, I wrote the appointment on the calendar.
The clock above the stove showed the correct time.
I looked at it and smiled.
I had spent so long thinking about what I'd lost that I hadn't noticed how many things were still possible.
I could help somebody else.
I could learn something new.
I could spend time with Wendell without making every moment a test of whether I was doing the right thing.
None of that meant I missed Dwight less.
It meant I was finally allowing myself to live.
On Sunday, Wendell came for supper.
I made chicken and rice.
He brought peaches again.
I told him he was going to make me sick of peaches before summer was over.
He said that was a risk he was willing to take.
We ate at the kitchen table.
Afterward, he helped me wash the dishes.
I told him about the volunteer position.
He looked pleased.
"That's good, Winnie."
"I'm a little nervous."
"About what?"
"Being useful again."
He set a plate in the cupboard.
"You never stopped being useful."
I looked at him.
He didn't make a speech about it.
He simply returned to drying the dishes.
I thought about the years I'd spent in emergency rooms, the people I'd helped, and the lives I'd seen change in a matter of minutes.
I had believed retirement meant leaving that part of myself behind.
Perhaps it didn't.
Perhaps I could still be the woman who noticed when somebody was frightened and needed a quiet voice beside them.
I finished drying the last plate.
Then I turned toward Wendell.
"Thank you."
He looked puzzled.
"For what?"
"For remembering who I am."
He smiled.
"I don't think that's very hard."
I laughed, but I felt my eyes sting.
After he left, I sat in Dwight's recliner.
The clock ticked steadily in the kitchen.
For once, I wasn't measuring the evening by how long it had been since somebody left.
I was thinking about Monday morning.
I was thinking about the senior center.
And I was looking forward to getting out of bed.
Click here to continue reading: PART 18: When I Began Helping at the Senior Center, I Met a Woman Who Reminded Me of Myself Before I Learned to Trust My Own Judgment Again
My Husband Had Been Gone Two Years, but the First Man Who Made Me Feel Alive Again Had Something He Wouldn’t Explain
Part 17 of 24
