top of page

Widow's Walk

Writer's picture: Kim M HorwoodKim M Horwood

I remember car windows down and hands outside, surfing the waves of peninsula breezes.  

I remember following the road around sweeping bends, between rows of heritage houses and views over the water.

I remember my husband driving back and forth over that road while we decided which fish ‘n chip shop had the shortest line of customers.

But I can’t remember if someone asked about the fancy iron railings around that rooftop or if I just suddenly needed to impart some knowledge.

Whether the kids noticed the weird roof balcony or not, they were about to get a lesson on widow’s walks.

“That little platform on the roof, it’s a widow’s walk,” I declared, “where a wife would have a clear view of the ocean and wait for her husband’s ship to come home.”

“How could she be a widow if he came home?” was a question from the back.

“That’s the thing… there were some who didn’t come home and were lost at sea.”


I explained to the kids that in the olden days when widow’s walks were built on rooftops, ships weren’t made the way they are now, and ocean travel was risky.

“Well… if he died, she must have waited a long time.”

“Yeh,” I sighed, “she probably waited a long time for him to come home.”

Maybe my explanation was nothing but a romantic myth, but the thought of the widow and her watch has been on my mind.

I’ve thought about how the purpose of her step changed each day, as she climbed to take her position on her widow’s watch. I’ve thought of her eyes on the horizon, the hope in her heart, and the ache in her body. I’ve thought of her vigil and her broken sleep.  

Was his keepsake on her bedside or under her pillow or in her pocket, where her fingers could find it through the day. Would she inhale his scent from the clothes he’d left behind.

I have thought of the rituals of her day, and I have traced her path. I’ve thought about how her steps became a whisper and about how quiet her world became.

I know how hard it would have been for her to leave her watch, and to move her eyes away from the horizon. I know the words she whispered into the wind, willing him to return to her. And when he didn’t, I know she would scream to the night.

I know, because I walk with her. As I travel oceans of grief, my heart traces the path of my widow’s walk.

118 views0 comments

Recent Posts

See All
Two Trees

Two Trees

Comments


© 2016 by Kim Horwood. Proudly created with Wix.com

bottom of page