Christine has given me her permission to post her beautiful farewell to Linda.
Linda dear,
As nearly everyone I know, I have thought of you and little else these past days. And wanted to tell you—what, I am not sure. That you have meant much to me.
I recall sitting on the couch with you at Mary and Alan’s—both of us very pregnant, late spring 2001, liking you already, imagining that you and I would have years ahead to become friends as our daughters (I knew that Rowan was a girl and somehow imagined a whole troupe of wee girls, Clara and mine and yours, growing up together). Imagined all of us women together, coffee-shops and nursing babies.
Then after our horrible accident, and as the days and weeks and months made it clear that Rowan would not have a sweetly normal baby existence, I found that I could not bear to be around people with healthy children, that I felt like the uninvited wedding guest, the face of dark happenstance. I imagined that people enjoying their healthy children’s first steps and first words felt a terrible chill when they saw me, that they could see the terrible possibility of a chance moment and everafter hurt children.
But I never felt that with you and Ellie: you always—in all of our brief meetings on campus, in the coffee shop, wrapped us up in the warmth of your sympathy, your genuine caring. When you asked, “how is Rowan doing?� I never minded answering, never felt awkward.
And I took such pleasure in seeing you and Ellie together: I see the image of you and her in the sunlight, the joy of her new rubber boots splashing in the puddles, her shy smiles from behind your calf. And always the warmth of your regard. You and Ellie were the picture of how Rowan and I should have been. Not with envy—just the pure joy of mother and child—the two of you so lovely and happy together: you allowed me the pleasure of those sweet baby moments, when your curly blonde sweety sat up tall with her own cookie grasped in sturdy baby fingers. And for those moments it was as if Rowan, unhurt, also lovely in the sunlight, was sitting up, showing off for her mommy also.
Thirty-four so desperately, horribly brief; yet such a legacy of love. I close my eyes and imagine us all in the coffee shop, watching our lovely little girls grow up, all of us laughing together through the years.
Christine
Linda dear,
As nearly everyone I know, I have thought of you and little else these past days. And wanted to tell you—what, I am not sure. That you have meant much to me.
I recall sitting on the couch with you at Mary and Alan’s—both of us very pregnant, late spring 2001, liking you already, imagining that you and I would have years ahead to become friends as our daughters (I knew that Rowan was a girl and somehow imagined a whole troupe of wee girls, Clara and mine and yours, growing up together). Imagined all of us women together, coffee-shops and nursing babies.
Then after our horrible accident, and as the days and weeks and months made it clear that Rowan would not have a sweetly normal baby existence, I found that I could not bear to be around people with healthy children, that I felt like the uninvited wedding guest, the face of dark happenstance. I imagined that people enjoying their healthy children’s first steps and first words felt a terrible chill when they saw me, that they could see the terrible possibility of a chance moment and everafter hurt children.
But I never felt that with you and Ellie: you always—in all of our brief meetings on campus, in the coffee shop, wrapped us up in the warmth of your sympathy, your genuine caring. When you asked, “how is Rowan doing?� I never minded answering, never felt awkward.
And I took such pleasure in seeing you and Ellie together: I see the image of you and her in the sunlight, the joy of her new rubber boots splashing in the puddles, her shy smiles from behind your calf. And always the warmth of your regard. You and Ellie were the picture of how Rowan and I should have been. Not with envy—just the pure joy of mother and child—the two of you so lovely and happy together: you allowed me the pleasure of those sweet baby moments, when your curly blonde sweety sat up tall with her own cookie grasped in sturdy baby fingers. And for those moments it was as if Rowan, unhurt, also lovely in the sunlight, was sitting up, showing off for her mommy also.
Thirty-four so desperately, horribly brief; yet such a legacy of love. I close my eyes and imagine us all in the coffee shop, watching our lovely little girls grow up, all of us laughing together through the years.
Christine
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