A Friendship Without Boundaries
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The call from Jim Cunningham on Thursday took me by surprise. Was I the Mary Mc who was friends with his mother, Carolyn? She was in town, he said, and would like to see me.
We met at Arby's and visited for no more than five minutes. Before parting, Jim and I spoke privately over by my van. He encouraged me to call his number because his mom's advanced Parkinson's disease keeps her from answering her phone.
Oh, Mrs. C., Mrs. C., was there ever another being like you? So free, flying high, zany and whimsical, breathy, tickled, poetical, artistic and lover of life. To me, your friends seemed numberless. When each began to encounter life's hurts, you hurt, too--and willingly carried more than your share of pain.
After James and I moved from West Helena 30 years ago, I would sometimes call you. But not very often--maybe once a year. I would dial the library and wait for you to answer "Library" in your inimitable way. Then came my invariable one-word query: "Well?" To which you would faithfully quip, "So?" You were never taken aback and always knew exactly who I was.
You were the West Helena librarian for 37 years and relished matching people with the perfect books. And oh how funny you were, tingling with checked excitement, gauging the reader's response. Had you made the right pick? If so, laughter erupted!
You loved the people around you, you loved your friends of Ireland, and you loved and loved and loved your mother. And you loved Gretel. Don't forget Gretel, your dear, four-legged companion.
Your husband's senseless murder left its indelible mark upon your life, stealing your youth and spontaneity. You told me you were finally old.
It saddens me to see you as you are now, even though you are still beautiful. On Thursday, I saw that oh-so-familiar spark in your eyes--just before you cried. I think you were crying for what I'm crying--the knowledge of what you've left behind: your youthful ways and exuberance. You know things will never be the same, for you've exchanged joy for the duty of waiting.
You were 49, and I was 24 when we first met. Now you are 80, and I'm older than you were then. I had never met anyone like you before. You were not old, though I assure you that at 24, I thought 49 was more ancient than Australia. You seemed eternally young, full of never-ending surprises and boundless interests.
You've bragged on your son and granddaughters so often that they live perpetually in the light of perfection in my mind. It is only right that they should be blessed after you.
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Though forced by birth into different generations, their kindred spirits acknowledge no such limitation. Might we all be blessed with such a friendship.
Copyright 2002 James McAlister
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