You died on a Leap Day.
20 leap days since the year of your birth.
You took your last breath in the year 2020,
11 days before the COVID-19 outbreak was characterized as a pandemic.
Your memorial was postponed and will likely not happen.
You would have hated us making a fuss so in this you have won.
We won't gather to cry over the loss. We'll all cry on our own.
The gifts you passed on to me burn. Each item seared with your memory sear me.
Silver barrette. Blue flower bandanna. The Voice of Bugle Ann.
I misplaced the barrette and my heart twisted and twisted and twisted and then it was found.
My heart won't stop twisting because you are still gone.
The ways we mirrored each other are sharper and sometimes soothe the ache.
Soil sisters.
Green souls. Garden life rooted in our veins.
Vegetarians with a weakness for farmer's markets.
I have stacks and stacks of your letters tied up with twine. All of them say the same thing.
“The cats are outrageous and I am their slave. The garden is my salvation. My students are glued to their phones.”
Bad news began to creep into your letters.
“I've been reduced to teaching only two classes. The money is running out. I have to replace the roof. The money is running out. No one wants to hire an old lady. The money is running out. The house was broken into. The money is running out. I have cancer. The money is running out.”
You wouldn't stay in the hospital because you had too much to do. You convinced the doctor you'd come back.
You talked about it as if you'd escaped captivity. “They were trying to starve me! I couldn't get any sleep! I'm home with my kitties and I'm going to stay here!"
You jumped to action getting your house and affairs ready for your death. The cancer slowed you down, stealing your breath more and more.
You were pissed about not being able to work. You were pissed that cancer took your energy. You were pissed that you had to rest. Even at your sickest you refused to stay overnight at the hospital. Even so, the doctor convinced you to come back to try chemo, telling you that they would do the smallest dose.
You died on the table shortly after the first of the chemicals entered your veins.
Code was yelled in time and they brought you back from the dead.
They never asked you to try it again.
“I died," you announced. "It's not so bad. I'm not scared of dying anymore.”
Your words came out with the same rush of energy you would have had when describing important points to your students.
You wanted me to know that you had accepted your fate.
You wanted me to be okay.
Months and months later you would slip away peacefully in your sleep.
It’s how you wanted it to happen, though you would have prefered to be at home when your time came.
It is a relief to know you don’t have to worry or hurt or struggle. It is a relief to know we said goodbye.
Even so I can't stop crying.
And when I’m at my lowest the memory of how you would snort with laughter makes me laugh through my tears.
Thank you for being a good friend.
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