We buried one of my best friend's daughter yesterday. She was twenty-eight years old.
Last Saturday afternoon I received a phone call on my cell phone as I was on my way home from grocery shopping that she had been admitted to ICU in another town. Sunday morning the phone rang and I knew, even though my brain was screaming I did not want to believe it was true. I hurriedly got dressed and rode the one hour and forty minutes to be with my friend. My heart was hurting so bad, I could not even begin to grasp the level and degree of her pain and anguish, or imagine that I ever could. But I knew that there was a dire need to put my arms around my friend and just hold on tight.
Six days we gathered with family and friends at the small country church with beautiful stained-glass windows to remember this young woman with the contagious smile, as she once had been before the troubles came and ripped her away.
We walked through grass that was damp and stuck to our shoes, just as if it was charged with static electricity, and we made our way to the far corner of the country cemetery. Another song was sung, more scripture was read and one last prayer was given.
Then after a meal set out in the fellowship hall by the ladies in the church, my friend and I arrived home to my house.
A florist shop appeal awaited us in the sun room. We sat down with mugs of Constant Comment tea and each other's company. It was the best we could do at the moment.
