I was supposed to write about my friend's mother who passed away in February. At her wake I asked him if I could write something about her here. He said i could.
I haven't written anything. I meant to write about how, among all the other parents in my neighborhood, she stood out as one of the ones who actually liked me.
She gave me a Raggedy Ann book once, that I took home and scribbled my name all over in huge, lopsided craggy letters. I still have that book on my bookshelf.
I remember her as an excellent cook, an excellent gardener, who used to leave pie plates of beer in her garden to catch slugs.
I remember her impatience and exasperation at us the time that we decided to cast fishing lines in the field across the street and my friends little brother got a fish hook caught in the seat of his jeans.
I remember that she kept an incredibly cozy house. When I am reading a book and imagining in my head a home, my friends old house is one of the settings I picture in my head. It's usually a toss up between that house or my cousin Jean's house.
That woman kept a magical home, I can't describe it really, but there was something about it that was infinitely warm and safe. Especially for a child who felt insecure for a majority of the time.
That house is long gone, every time I drive past where it used to be, at the bottom of the hill next to my old elementary school, I get sad.
Diane is gone now too. The last time I saw her was at my own mother's wake 10 years ago. She read it in the paper and told my friend to come to it with her. I was surprised and grateful for that gesture.
She passed on too soon. She was lovely and I wish that I could have bumped into her again after that wake.
(Sighing and hanging my head)- That's all I got for today. Nothing funny here today folks.