GOODBYE, LOVE

I don't particularly want to write this post, but I can't not write it.  My friend died very peacefully, but very suddenly on March 9th, and nothing I write or don't write will change that.  My neighbor gasped on the phone that Sunday morning, "Kathy's gone", and I find I repeat that phrase daily in my heart, in my head, and out loud to similarly shocked friends.  "Kathy's gone..."

Del Webb sells his homes by neighborhood.  Early in 2003, his corporation began building and marketing homes in what would become the "Havasu" division.  Within mere months, 170 homes were completed--landscaping included.  Life within a Del Webb community leans toward egalitarianism.  Mr. Webb happily mixes Classics, Cottages, Premiers and Estate models throughout his neighborhoods, and those living within mix just as cheerfully.  I don't know that that is important right now, but I'm trying to say that we all moved into Havasu within two or three months of each other.  Everyone was new...some to the community, others to the neighborhood.  It means we bonded quickly.  We became a cohesive, close-knit neighborhood and we remain so today.  Kathy's death has left a gaping hole on our street.

Obviously, we're an older adult neighborhood.  It's a retirement community for heaven's sake.  We know a little about life.  Many of us are on our second marriage.  We've learned that spouses die, love dies, things fall apart.  We've all experienced decades of life--good and bad.  Why did we feel so insulated here?  Why were we so shocked when death crept into our midst? 

Because no one is ready for death.  Whether it's a painfully slow decline or a sudden horrific accident.  Death surprises us, and shocks us, and leaves us weak.  Even at our age, we don't know how to respond, how to comfort and, especially, how to feel.  We're sad, we're stunned and we're a bit afraid.  We all know it could have been us.

But it wasn't.  It was Kathy.  Kathy, sitting in her little (perfectly sized) comfy chair, "frou-frou" coffee at her side, daily devotional in her lap.  It was Kathy, who loved sparkles, created elaborate and beautiful greeting cards, knit dozens of dainty scarves, and painstakingly beaded unique, much-admired jewelry.  Kathy, who sang in the choir, made pastoral visits to those who were housebound, greeted new members, and was a pillar of the churchwomens' groups. 

But most of all, it was Kathy who loved Jim.  Kathy, who loved her family, her friends, her church, her neighborhood.  Kathy, who never failed to let us know she was there for us.  No--actually, it was Kathy, who was always there for us.

While I was standing outside of her house the morning she died, various professionals inside doing what they're charged to do, my next door neighbor turned to me and said, "She was my best friend, you know."  I don't think I'd thought about "best friend" vs "friend" for a long time.  But Kris' comment stayed with me and  yes, in many ways, Kathy was my best friend, too.  The following week at church, Kathy's absence so glaringly painful for everyone there, I continued to hear similar echoes.  Kathy...my friend...our friend...we miss her...so sad...friend...

Oddly enough, I've always been fascinated by epitaphs--those spoken, as well as those chiseled in stone.  I've always worried a little that mine might turn out to be: "Oh, so that's who that was."  But over the past week or so I've come to believe that Kathy's will be the best epitaph anyone could hope for, because in its simplicity it goes so deep and so wide and touches the soul that abides in us all:  "Kathy was our friend.  We will miss her always."

Good-bye, Love.