I Still Do

'When are you going to take off your wedding band?" asks my eldest daughter. The question seems abrupt, but has apparently been simmering for while. We stare at each other. I ask her why I would do such a thing. "Because you're not married," she says - this from a young lawyer trained to parse far more complex data. Indeed, the facts speak for themselves: I am a widow. It has been nearly three years since my 50-year-old husband died in an instant of massive heart attack.

Since then, I've become Paperwork Diva, the fate of all those who during their marriages postpone writing wills and estate planning. As penance for procrastination, you are named "administrator," code for an executor whose loved one failed to get his life - or more aptly, his death - in order. You invest new file cabinets, hone your organizational skills, and bless the day your daughter decided to become a lawyer.

It is the unrelenting barrage of forms that reminds you over and over that you don't quite meet the criteria for wearing a wedding band. Each time you come to the box where you've been checking "married" for long as you can remember, you must concentrate really hard and move your hand to another box, one marked "single" or, worse yet, "widow." God knows, I've checked off the latter enough times to grasp my new status. But I can't take off my ring.

All three of our daughters know that these past couple of years, I've been masquerading, wearing the circle of gold and feeling as married as ever. It helps that have an active imagination. Not that I've imagined that Jerry is still alive; that truth is painfully evident in the silent house, the empty bed, and the quick calls - "I'm leaving the office now" - that do not come. Instead, I have created my own reality. In that stark space, I recognize clearly that Jerry is gone forever. What I haven't given up - and Erin's direct question pushes it to the surface - is my being half of a couple, our couple.

I still talk to Jerry. I consult with him. I pray to him. I beg him at times. Give me joy. Give me peace. Give me hope. Give me answers.

At the cemetery, a place I never thought I'd frequent, I find the most concrete (no pun intended) connection. With the headstone in plain view, the data displayed, I can see that Jerry is dead. Nevertheless, he is available to me, as he was for the 19 years he was in my life or, more important, the lives of the three children I brought into our marriage. Jerry is still their dad. So naturally, I consult him on any matters of importance to them. Why, just last week, I told him I wanted some closure on an issue with our youngest daughter, and voila, there she is, accepting a bid from a graduate school. It's 2,000 miles away, but I think of the opportunity ahead of her and Jerry's mantra echoes its affirmation and approval: "Who dares, wins." I knew Jerry was smiling along with me. We, a married couple, were smiling in unison.

Take off my wedding band? Jerry's asking the same question, I'm sure, now grinning at me from a collage of photos. He took off his own ring only once, that I know of. I so quickly and vigorously admonished him that the incident became part of family folklore and fodder for his humorous repertoire.

Many widows and widowers choose to find new partners. But for me, at 55, it's not happening - at least not yet. My husband is simply less talkative, not less communicative. I have to be very quiet, and listen really hard. It helps that we had developed a system of nonverbal communication, telepathing shared jokes and sending signals to allow synchronized departures from social events. Now alone, I rely on my intuition, my memories, and my faith. I've learned over the past three years that this way, I get counsel, companionship, and courage.

I smile at my left hand. I'm still part of a couple, but my partner is not able to attend, thank you very much. He sends his regrets, but he also sends love, humor, and compassion. The last, especially, because he knows how much I miss him.

Donna Milmore lives in Boston. E-mail comments to coupling@globe.com