This past weekend actually started with an email from a friend of mine in  mid week, just letting me know that her mother was probably going to die. Her mother was in her nineties and had come close to death at least two other times and pulled out of it. This time, she left our world. I have known my friend almost 30 years and I her mother just as long.

She was a nice woman, and in a way a tough woman. She was creative, enthusiatic, sharp tongued and had a life full of trauma, drama and I think love. I know that her daughter was devoted to her and tried to be a good daughter. Without telling all the family secrets, let me say this, without my friend, her mother's life would have been very different. My friend, of all her children, was the one who asked for nothing, not money, not gifts. She watched as her siblings took and took and took, and disappointed. Suicide, addiction, failed marriages, failed businesses and drama. My friend was a middle child, but became the eldest. She took the responsiblity, she managed the fire, the senior accomodations, the nursing homes, the stress that everyone else may have merely added to. She did this with breast cancer twice, and her own struggles and marriage, child and being a grandmother later herself. 

So I spoke to her, sent her flowers and a box of chocolate, drove to do a wellness check on her, picked up a carmel topped apple pie (while it was still hot)  and entertained for some time and drove back (without eating the pie).

A couple of old friends had stopped by and they were sitting with her husband in the large room with the fire place. Drinking some wine they were all relaxed but the men more so. It was a great crowd for my chatter. I had come to do what I always do, make my friend happy, listen if needed, entertain if needed. I sat down in the middle of the couch, not my first choice, but available. After a moment or two, my friend sat down next to me. We were all laughing about something I had said, I was talking about OS and how a guy joined and made me an honorary RAIDER because of my General Walker Skytop post.

My friend took my hand and held it.  That is friendship, the lifeline when you need it. I cannot tell you how much we have been through together, sometime ago I had a special birthday, she told me I was her dearest friend. The keeper of the pieces of another's life, that is my role and no doubt it has been hers. I say nothing, unless I am asked, I bring up nothing, the vault is sealed shut. There is nothing but connections made throughout the years, which tell the story of a life. The hand connects to the hand and the heart is already connected.

 I drove out today to the funeral, and drove back, skipping the internment, the luncheon. I picked up lunch for my husband and spent the time with him at our business.

Normally I don't drive far for a number of reasons, so my husband wanted to send my son the other day to drive me, since he was home from school, but I declined, and I know he worried about me going alone today. He could not leave having too much on his plate for Monday. I was fine and managed all I had to. I was proud of myself for doing all I did, and I did not get lost either.  Forget about the navigation device, I wouldn't know how to figure it out, although I did charge my cell phone, just in case. Ha.

In between these two days, my husband and I were invited across the street for a birthday party. We went to the party of a 1 year old and a 3 year old. They are very beautiful children and we did it for many reasons. I love buying kids toys, clothes, stuff like that. It gives me a lot of pleasure.

They are related to one of our customers. He is a neighbor, he is also the man who lost his first grandchild to murder and his daughter to suicide. This was a party for his son's children, his son who had married after the death of his sister.

It was a long and involved incident, and made national news. I wrote a poem about it on OS some time ago. It was called The Girl Across The Street.

My sons and husband know this grandfather very well he comes to our business all the time, I also know him. This was however, my first time in the house. I know that sounds strange, but no stanger than what happened in the house, those years ago now. I was surprised at how clean and pleasant looking it was, very European in its style. White walls and light wood, clean feeling, not a place for a murder.

It was raining and hailing, outside. All we had to do was walk across the street and we were late. It was like we were being kept from going there. I put all the gifts in plastic bags, shoved my brimmed winter hat on, pulled on my jacket and just went. My husband followed, talking to me and I could not even hear him. The hail was falling and the water flowing, the earth was starting to wash over the road, and oh my, it was just a few steps away. Well, we got there. We were soaked. I took my shoes off, my husband had to unlace his boots, standing up. Our shoes joined many on a small rug on the floor.  I took the wet bags off the presents, and we made our way through a Candyland game being played on the floor of the hallway by a bunch of blond haired children. They seemed to match. 

The main room  we glanced into, it was set up with a long table. The back wall was all glass. It showed a beautiful deck, a lovely yard, and a dormant garden. He took us the other way down a short hall. There were three doors closed. He opened one, it was a master bedroom. He wanted us to see what some people had paid an artist to make in memory of his daughter and grandchild. These people knew his daughter and granddaughter because that is where they spent their time, at a local coffee shop, bakery. It was a quilt with pictures on it and writing in his native language. He had hung it on the wall. He explained each picture, he told a story about each. He started to cry. Throughout the room were religious pictures. We patiently stood and listened and in his sorrow, his accent made his story harder to understand, and we listened instead with our hearts.

Finally he told us that the 3 year old granddaughter had wandered in and taken the beads of the first granddaughter that were draped on her picture and put them around her neck.

Then he said the room of the daughter and granddaughter was left exactly as it had been when they were alive. He could not bring himself, to clean it out, all the toys were still there. He cried and cried. My husband stood quietly, gently rubbing his back with his hand. Finally I said, something to him, I had sensed a kind of fear, and a kind of sorrow so deep that logic made no sense. Here we were, at one end of the house in grief and the other end was in joy. I knew their religion, and their obvious devotion to it. I was familiar. I said "Why not ask your priest to come and bless your home. It might make you feel better." He stopped crying. We walked out of the room, passing the closed door of their private hell.

Later my husband told me that might have been the very best thing to say. We retired to the other part of the house, the children, and the smells of homemade food. Although we did not speak their native language, we were treated again, as honored guests, just as we had been at the wedding years before, of the parents whose children we were to celebrate on this day.  

I would like to tell you that all the pain that might have been a part of what happened there, is not there any longer. That would not be true.  

 http://open.salon.com/blog/sheilatgtg55/2010/07/15/the_girl_across_the_street

 Copyright 2011 by SheilaTGTG55