Forty-five years ago you walked into my classroom, son in hand. You smiled. Told me a friend had insisted you enroll your son in my class. You didn’t drop him off, bit stayed to help/

You came back the next day and the next. You helped set up, put things away, and sucked up ants when they invaded the little kids’ bathroom.

From that beginning a relationship was born.

When I needed help, you were there. I was offered a part-time job at the Catholic School. Two of my kids were enrolled, but not my youngest. You took him into your home, into your heart.

When school ended, you picked up my school-age kids and brought them home as well. You fed them, Played games with them. Oversaw homework. Drove them to parks. Made sure they treated each other with respect. And when your son began piano lessons, you signed my daughter up as well.

I remember when you wanted a new dog. We visited shelters on both sides of the bay. You didn’t find a dog, but you helped me adopt a tiny puppy.

When that puppy wouldn’t eat, could barely walk you showed me how to create a healthy gruel. How to squirt it down the throat.

One dog that walked into our garage needed training. You turned the beast upside down and gave her a talking-to. She behaved from then on.

You invited us for weekends at your cabin. Those were great times. We cooked together. Played games. Sang and talked. Our kids shared toys and food. Everyone got along.

When your husband retired and moved the family to Turkey, it broke my heart. My best friend was too far away to visit, phone calls too expensive. It felt as if we were no longer a unit. Even though I knew we were.

The times you returned for doctor’s visits and we were reunited, were like rays of sunshine on my cloudy days!

Unfortunately your husband passed away. You returned. What a glorious time we had! Our kids were independent, so we got to do things, just the two of us. Usually it was just lunch and talking, lots and lots of talking, but I cherished every minute with you.

And then you moved again, this time to southern California. I’d fly down, stay in the house for about a week. We visited animal parks, saw two dollar movies, shopped at Catherine’s and shared meals. Special times that I have never forgotten.

Off to Arizona you went. It took two flights to see you, if the second leg was working. Every time I saw you, it was like being blessed with holy water. You lifted my spirits, made me feel special, and treated me not like a guest, but like family.

Somewhere along our journey we began calling ourselves sisters. We were close like that. You knew what I was thinking and feeling as I did you.

Do you remember when the hot air balloons landed almost in your front yard! How amazing was that? Or when I met you at dog shows and watch you judge in the ring or show your own dogs. You taught me a lot about that world.

One time you flew up here to observe and be trained in judging bulldogs. I sat there, for hours, watching and listening and learning. I don’t like the breed, but your fascination mad me fascinated.

Isn’t that what friendship is about? Learning from each other’s strengths. Simply being together, rejoicing in everyday acts like watching television or sharing a meal.

It hurt to watch you falter. When your heart weakened you, stealing your thunder. You used to walk with purpose, determined to accomplish your goal. Now you struggled to get through the grocery store. But you didn’t give up.

Until cancer hit. I wasn’t there, but I heard it in your voice. I couldn’t hold your hand, but I could send cards of support. I couldn’t hold your hand or give you a hug, but I could activate my church prayer group.

Now you are gone.

You are with your husband and friends. You are standing in the glory of God. You are free of pain.

I miss you so much even though you are in a better place. A place were you no longer hurt. Where you don’t cry in pain. Where you can enjoy being one with God.

Goodbye, my friend.