The Widows of Flight 348

Who are you?

The answer is a stain too potent to purge. It’s one I can’t bring myself to acknowledge out loud, but everyone else seems to have naturally accepted. I remain in this abyss without him forever. The realization haunts me like a murky, thick sludge I can’t wash away: the stench is always present, always hovering like a ghost over my shoulder.

Widow.

The word wears me like a black canvas, masked in dark clothes and deep creases on my face. In the mirror’s reflection, the lids of my eyes sag, lifeless and flat like the satin blouse tucked into my navy skirt. William used to love this outfit. Back then, when he saw it, a mischievous grin would spread across his full lips. At the time, I didn’t treasure those interactions enough. Not like I do now. What I would give to feel his calloused hands trace and snag the smooth material.

I stand in the bathroom waiting for another answer. Nothing comes. There was a time, not long ago, when I had a different title. Many, in fact. Ones that once marked joyous milestones, but are now a tainted reminder of loss.

Bride. Wife. Optimist.

What’s left of my life feels like a carcass stripped to the bone, left alone on the side of a silent highway. Except I’m not dead, which pissed me off. How dare William leave me here? Immediately, I regret this slight against him. William would never have done this on purpose. There’s a list of who to blame, and he’s at the bottom. His only fault is that he should have stayed home instead of traveling that hideous day.

Now I see myself as the world does. Even the segment for today’s news interview is titled to reflect my new reality: The Widows of Flight 348. The phrase, like a badge of dishonor, was splayed across the producer’s call sheet as she welcomed me into the production studio. Seeing it promptly led me to excuse myself for a bathroom to blot my eyes for the hundredth time this morning.

I wonder if the other widows feel this way. All five of us left without our spouses, without our futures.

Labeling them in this way feels like a betrayal of their true nature. We don’t know each other. Not yet. Within a half hour, when it’s time to express our shared grief in front of the cameras, that will change.

Why did I agree to this again? For a moment, I consider leaving the newsroom, then remember the producer’s plea.

How had she phrased it over the phone?

A chance to speak for William. Do it for him. At that moment, I desperately wanted - needed - a purpose for this tragedy. The voice on the phone convinced me that sharing William’s story would help. Now I’m not so sure.

There’s a knock at the door.

Time is slipping away. My hour has almost arrived.

“Hi, how are you doing? Can I get you anything? Water? Tissues?” A fresh-faced producer pops her head tentatively into the bathroom. Immediately, I resent her and the untapped potential of her still blossoming life. Sharp responses fire off in my mind.

Terrible, my husband is dead.

Anything? William is what I want. Bring him back.

Instead of releasing venom, I take a deep breath as my therapist has instructed, shake my head, and follow her from the room like a sheep to slaughter. We walk to the edge of a curtain, where she positions me with the other wives left behind. In their eyes, I recognize the same depth of grief that ravages my soul. A few of the women have the mark of anger: tight lips and sharp glares. They have arrived before me. Is that stage easier than the first? I wonder when I’ll join them, when my deliverance from denial will occur. Tomorrow? Next week? Will I remain this way forever, aching for a reality as obliterated as the plane that carried our husbands away?

I still don’t know their names. Not the women or their husbands, but I will soon. Intentionally avoiding the news coverage prevented this knowledge. It couldn’t stop the rumors, though, that circled in conversations like ravenous buzzards at William’s wake.

Did the plane fail inspection?

I heard the pilot was new. His first real day on the job. Clearly, their training needs updating.

Planes don’t burst midair without a reason. Recovering the black box will tell us more.

Everyone wants clarity. They want an “ah ha” moment, to pinpoint a reason or hold a person accountable. But who cares about answers if they can’t bring William back?

“It’s time,” the young producer says. It’s clear she doesn’t want to rush us on stage, but there’s tension between her and whoever is delivering orders in her earpiece. She, like us all, has a job to do.

All five of us walk together onto the platform where an anchor stands. Spotlights from above cast her in a brilliant glow, like she’s an angel. Our black fashion makes the room feel instantly heavier. Around her sit five high-top chairs in a semicircle. We each take our place. I chose the end seat, hoping the camera will gravitate to the center. First, the host greets us as a group, then offers personal handshakes.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” she repeats to each of us. At this point, the phrase rolls off people’s tongues as naturally as “good morning.” It hovers at the end of every conversation and further cements our scarlet letters.

Sorrow. Loss. Widow.

Then, a cold nudge lifts me out of my thoughts. The woman to my left, a pretty brunette with cropped curly hair, has taken my hand. There’s something timeless about her presence - like a modern Elizabeth Taylor with hazel eyes. This woman doesn’t extend anything else, only offering a supportive grip. Beside my neighbor, the woman next in line holds her other hand. A chain reaction evolves before me, until each widow is tethered hand in hand.

Again, the sting of hot tears resurfaces, but this time, I don’t feel the urge to run away and hide in a stall. Instead, I let them fall freely down my blotchy cheeks.

Our message is audible in the silence: a defiant stand against the injustice forced upon us.

Who am I now that William is gone?

This question still prompts many unfavorable answers. But here, joined with these women, I feel the void that’s eclipsed me for weeks weaken.

Together, we represent many things, except one. We are never alone. Not anymore.