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Widowed Village connects peers with each other for friendship and sharing. The moderators, administrators, and others involved in running this site are not professionals.

Please don't interpret anything you read here as medical, legal, or otherwise expert advice. Don't disregard any expert's advice or take any action as a result of what you read here.

We're friends, not doctors, financial or legal professionals, and we're not "grief experts." But we are here, and we've been "there."

The coffee is no remedy, the music is no cure.

The coffee is no remedy, the music is no cure.

As the day grinds I lean my head against the wall.

Her picture looks so pretty to me, you know, she always did.

Staring down the street again, is it sun or is it rain?

The lyrics must have a meaning, to someone, I am sure.

The words floating in the air are but faint whispers in my ears.

It's the rhythm that touches my soul, the beat that drives my mind.

Perhaps the beating of my heart will prevail upon the silence.

Busy cars move the fast lives past my eyes.

My forehead against the coolness of the window glass.

You know her picture looks so pretty to me, as she always did.

But it's the warm mug that I am feeling, if only it was her hand.

The music is no remedy and the coffee will not cure.

I smile as the stranger passes, like she always did.

Somehow I feel her looking at me as I lean against the wall.

Looking down the road again, is it sun or is it rain?

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