The dining room table where I drink my morning coffee is cluttered with my stuff. Journal, pens, glue stick, tape, a couple of knitting patterns, a sock in progress. I like to think of it as my desk, but it’s not. I like it here. There is a window that looks out to the back yard. The cats lurk around, watching for strangers outside. I tell the Husband that I plan my day here, but that’s not exactly true. I think about past day’s events. Knitting, meals, surfing, reading, shopping. I record yesterday as a memory, rather than as it happens.
Last weekend, I went to a memorial service for a friend that passed away. She had leukemia. The standard homily is that she lost her battle with cancer. I get the metaphor. But to me she was Sisyphus, who after pushing that boulder for ten years, just stopped the struggle. The memorial service was that mix of sadness and joy that is a characteristic of these events. The sadness of the loss, and the joy of seeing people that you haven’t seen in a long time. When I got dressed to go, in my somber black and grey, I added a shawl I recently finished. Not for the warmth, but the color. A few months back I made a sweater for her. She picked out the yarn, a clear blue. She told me that her mother always dressed her in neutral colors and earth tones, but she longed for blue. At the reception when friends commented on the shawl, I kept that memory to myself.
Like Carol’s family and friends, I will miss her. I will horde my memories of her. I will think of her in blue.
