AND SHE COULD PUT HER HANDS RIGHT ON IT
After lunch with Missy on Monday, we popped in to visit my mom. If it weren't for her, Missy and I wouldn't be friends for 44 years.
The story begins in the mid-50's, when Missy's father, Henny, and my mother, Ruth, were two young single things living in Hawaii. They were part of the same friendship circle, and wonder of wonders, both ended up in Eugene, Oregon by the early 60's. My mom married my dad, Henny married Lolette, "Lo." Lo and my mom became the dearest of friends and remained so until she died 3 weeks after my dad. I couldn't go to her memorial service 2 weeks after her death, because I was in the hospital giving birth to Rojo.
Isn't that just the way life and death work?
Thirteen years ago I lost two key people in my life, and gained one.
Henny and Lo were amongst the very few people that maintained good relations with both my parents after they divorced. I'll never stop being grateful for that - they provided a safe haven no matter which parent I was with at the time.
As we chatted with my mom, she suddenly recalled a gift Henny had given her a long, long time ago - something she wanted Missy to have now, if only she could put her hands on it.
She turned around, spent 3 seconds looking at her bookshelf, and there it was. Dead center. THE PROPHET.
It was beautifully inscribed by Henny, lovely and poetic words from a "kid" written in 1958. It was lovely and poetic to watch my nearly 79-year-old mother hand it to this 44-year-old "kid" and bring the circle full.