Funeral For A Friend

I would like to say that the drive to the cottage was uneventful, but it wasn’t.

On the way to Starbucks, I check my phone at the light. I have a message from my friend Kate. I listen but can not hear her clearly. She is on the beach and the wind made the message hard to hear.

When I am back in the car with a venti iced coffee and two hot chocolates, a breakfast sandwich, a piece of lemon pound cake and the meowing cat, I dial her back. I’d sent her a funny text earlier and I am dying to hear what she had to say about it.

But she is not in her usual zippy mood. She got a note from our friend Jane’s brother in the UK. Jane has died.

I make her repeat it. I simply can not have heard what she seems to have just said. She repeats exactly what she’d said and there is no mistaking it. Jane is gone from us. Suddenly. At the age of 44. And exactly 3 weeks since her wedding day.

I am immeasurably sad. I ask tons of questions, most of which Kate can not answer. But one thing is clear. We feel equally horrible about not having flown to the UK for the glorious occasion that was Jane’s wedding. She’d finally found the love of her life and we could not figure out how to juggle work, kids, finances, partners, custody issues and PTO time to get our fat American arses on a plane to England for what would be the last opportunity we’d have to see Jane.

To tell her how very much we love her.
To tell her she’s a radiant bride.
To tell her how beautiful and special she is to us.
To retell stories and relive old memories.
To toast her happiness.
To share a drink or two or ten.
To dance like we were 20 again.

I know people say these things when someone has died. People say how wonderful a person was. How close they were. How they never had a bad thing to say or thought a bad thought about them. Even when it is not entirely truthful. When someone has died we tend to deify them. Cleanse our memories of things gone wrong. Whether it is a matter of putting things in perspective or just respect, we seem to forget the times when someone borrowed our ladder and didn’t return it for months, or flirted with our boyfriend, or undermined us at work, or spoke harshly to our child. All forgotten and seemingly forgiven.

But with Jane, I have nothing I’d choose to rewrite. She lived with Kate and me for a few months in the year preceding my wedding to Lars and had scrambled back to the UK when an I-9 issue surfaced all of a sudden. She and Kate had been nannies for neighboring families years ago and had become famously good friends. When Jane came to temporarily occupy our absentee roommate’s room in the house we shared, I was momentarily skeptical. But my skepticism turned to elation within a day. I cherished those days.

Jane’s was a colorful, buoyant personality. Witty and outspoken and always game for an adventure. She was an engaging and gifted conversationalist. Charming and quick to see the humor in things. I adored her. She was flawlessly genuine. Genuine in her interest in you as a person. Genuine in her desire for your good fortune. And she could genuinely and robustly laugh at herself as easily as you would laugh at anything.

The world has grown a shade dimmer, its colors less vibrant, with her departure from it. To console myself, I will look to the stars in the Heavens for signs of her illuminating presence there.

Goodbye dear, sweet Jane. And Godspeed.