The house in San Francisco; an oddball house of charm and quirk, built in 1920, with a treacherous staircase, spiraling down to a bedroom that was dark on the sunniest of days.  The house she’d shared with Josh for ten-and-a-half years.

“That’s too big a decision for you, now,” the counselor said.  “It’s only been six months…since your husband died.”

The four women nodded in agreement, looking like they were about to cry––cry for Jeanette, cry for themselves, cry for their dead husbands.  Grief.  Embedded in their widow-faces.

The only reason Jeanette was here was because of her mother.  “A bereavement group might be cathartic, darling.  Just try it, try it once,” her mother had urged.  Well, she was trying it––and she wanted to bee-line for the door, dash into sunlight. 

“You need to give it at least a year before you make any important decision,” the counselor was saying.

“Then I’ll rent it out.”

“Do not trust your judgment,” a widow, whose husband had drowned two years ago, cautioned Jeanette.  “How did your husband die?”

Jeanette didn’t want to talk about it––how Josh’s SUV had flipped over (the SUV he’d refused to sell and she’d refused to ride in.)  She didn’t want to talk about––how, maybe, if she hadn’t told him she wanted a divorce the day before...maybe, he wouldn’t have crashed into a phone pole to avoid an oncoming truck...so he could get home.  Home to her...where she was waiting to help him pack.