Poor Widow Me

In the doctor’s waiting room, while filling out a form, I look up to see a man and a woman holding hands.  I look back down to read where it asks, “married status?”  My heart skipped a beat and my hand hesitated.  I circled the word widow.

Then I glanced up again, and the couple was arguing.  A part of me so wanted to tell them, whatever it is, let it go.  But I didn't.  Then I notice another couple, sitting with a chair between them for their coats.  That was Scott and me.  I wanted to go tell them to look at each other and talk before one of them isn't there anymore to talk to.  But I didn't.  

I don’t want to be that weird widow in the waiting room that lectures strangers.