Cathie

            Memory rises to fill my vision.  Blue sky, sun-shot surf rushing the shore near the bottom of the hill.  The curve to the right on Hastie Lake Road.  The memory of my dear friend Cathie, who took her flight to heaven on January 2, 2016.  Grief is a bright looking back, the knowing that time spent with her is gone this side of glory.

            I still imagine her zipping about Heaven in her electric-powered wheelchair.  Silly, I know.  But that sight somehow sums up the Cathie I knew.  Her rheumatoid arthritis and diabetes and low vision did not stop her.  The chair gave her freedom and speed.  I remember her zipping down an aisle at a flute recital in which I played.  She was going for a seat near the front. 

            It’s not that we knew each other long—five years?  In fact, we became close only the last months before I moved away from the island.  It’s that I felt so at home in her home.  My visits back (just three of them) defined by tea and ginger thins near bedtime, dinner and wine with my brother at her house, conversation and cold-brew coffee mornings.  Sorting through mail, sharing stories, going on errands in her van.

            Why this sun-filled scene today?  I don’t know, but grief’s bright looking back is both hollow with loss and brimmed tight full with joy.