Of Life and Death

Friday afternoon I attended a memorial service for the mother of a dear friend. Lest those of you who know me think this was the passing of a woman in her seventies or eighties, let me enlighten you. This was the death of a woman my age, whose daughter befriended me 14 years ago as I experienced some of the darkest days of my life. Amy’s friendship got me through a difficult divorce. She bolstered my damaged self image and supported my quest to reposition my talents and move forward. She brightened my days, over and over again, for months on end. Meeting her mom on many occasions, it was evident where Amy got her fantastic smile, her witty charm and her everlasting joyous outlook—from her mother, Alice.

As Alice’s life briefly unfolded through letters from her sisters and message from the minister in front of a packed room, it was obvious the number of lives this woman had touched. Family, students, former students, teachers and administration sat shoulder to shoulder, with tissues in hand, as one word or sentence took each of us back to a moment shared with Alice. I remembered the first time I met Alice when Amy brought me home late one weekend night. Alice was up and reading, something I learned very quickly was a passion. I remembered the first Read Aloud I had at Sheffield Primary—when Alice graciously gave up her planning time to come and read to second grade. I remembered the first time I saw Alice after I knew she was ill, at a school district function last October. She looked wonderful, her signature smile radiant as ever and I couldn’t help but think that she had beaten this horrible disease and was on her way to recovery. I saw her again in July when I was working summer school at Newman Smith. She seemed fatigued, but her smile was luminous. Our anticipated conversation was never realized as she was called to the phone and I returned to the library.

Mostly I remembered getting the news of her passing. I hadn’t heard my phone ring in the middle of a crowded IKEA. As I listened to the phone message, the crowds became invisible and I caught my breath in one giant gasp, followed by tears of sadness—grief for my beautiful friend Amy, and her brother, who had lost both of their parents in such a short time. Sorrow because Alice would never see her two beautiful grandchildren grow up. Almost simultaneously, melancholy swept over me as I realized how finite our time here is.

I suppose the message I am most imparting is the briefness of our earthly sojourn. Making the most of every moment is essential. Giggling with my six year old grandson, sharing a book with my kindergarten students, instructing my older students about the power of the written word, those in books, but more importantly their own—through all of these, I give away a small piece of myself that will be my legacy.

“The question is not whether we will die, but how we will live.”
Joan Borysenko, Ph.D.