Updated: Dec. 20, 2015
Originally Published: July 29, 2015
$108.63. That was the total of the last check I wrote.
My daughter had dozed off on the ride back from preschool, so I gently carried her into the living room and let her nap in the cozy red armchair while I tackled some pre-dinner chores. I started a load of laundry, played fetch with our dogs, and then settled down at my desk to handle bills. First up was a credit card bill, followed by a receipt for a propane delivery that had been hiding in the storm door.
As I filled out the check, I wrote the amount, added my account number at the top, and tore the check from the book along the perforation—something I had done countless times before. But this time, as I held check #1300, I felt a wave of nostalgia wash over me.
I had anticipated this moment. I opened a drawer and retrieved a small cardboard box. In front of me sat the new checkbook, marked #1301 in the top right corner, my name alone in the top left. Check #1300 was the last one bearing my late husband’s name.
About six months before his passing, when life had started to spiral downward but none of us knew how imminent his absence would be, I ordered new return address labels. They were a soft blue adorned with a little tree design, a motif we’d cherished for years. Thinking I was getting a better deal by buying in bulk, I made the rookie mistake of ordering two sets. My mind was elsewhere, and I hadn’t even considered updating them to “The Larksons” instead of “Jamie & Mark.” By the time I realized, it was too late, and I was left with a mountain of labels that no longer matched my reality.
After his death, I used the labels sparingly, reserving them for bills and impersonal mail. I didn’t want to shock anyone by sending letters from a man who was no longer here. I grew accustomed to receiving mail in his name, but I understood it would be a jarring reminder for others. Still, I clung to those labels, pulling them out occasionally for mundane correspondence, but never for birthday cards or heartfelt notes.
When I saw that last check with just my name written on it, I felt a mix of emotions. It was fascinating how something as trivial as a checkbook could symbolize so much, yet it also served as a stark reminder of my loss.
After paying the bills and applying those lovely blue labels, I set aside one sheet for the plastic bin in my basement filled with mementos from my past. The rest went into recycling, and rather than feeling devastated, I felt a sense of calm. I was sad, but I was okay; it had been 15 months, and I had checked off yet another milestone in the ongoing journey of widowhood.
The “firsts” of this new life continue long after the first year, the holidays, birthdays, and anniversaries. They come unexpectedly, like the first flowers of spring pushing through the snow. I’ve stopped trying to predict what will trigger my emotions, and I’ve learned not to judge myself for how I feel. I’ve found peace in the ebb and flow of grief, and I’m grateful that I’ve allowed myself to grieve in whatever way I need—even if it means shedding a tear over checks or holding onto a single sheet of address labels.
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Summary: The author reflects on the emotional journey of widowhood, focusing on the everyday reminders of loss, like writing checks and using old address labels. They share a poignant moment of realization as they navigate their grief and embrace the ongoing “firsts” that come with healing.