“Grief is in two parts,” writes Roiphe (Fruitful
; 1185 Park Avenue
). “The first is loss. The second is the remaking of life.” In her new memoir of late-life widowhood, she encounters the latter. Roiphe’s husband, “H” (Herman), died of a heart attack after 39 years of marriage. He left stacks of publications forwarded from his office that she can’t help reading—psychoanalytic case histories in which patients are known only by initials. She lives in a stunned, rhythmless disconnect, unsure how to mark time, sleep or stave off fear and loneliness. Thoughts of suicide comfort her as her former sense of independence evaporates. She struggles to manage her finances, decide where to live, keep up with the contents of her refrigerator and learn countless tasks that had always been H’s. Courtship, sex and gender roles confound her as she ventures to date men she meets through Match.com and the personal ad that her daughters place on her behalf. She considers her role in her family, her circle of friends, her new “sisterhood” of widows and the broader world in which she has “no right to complain.” In poignant flashes of everyday moments and memories, Roiphe tells an unflinching and unsentimental story of widowhood’s stupefying disquiet, of surviving love and living on. (Sept.)
