I don't know what to tell you.
It's been a hard day. A friend of mine died and today was her memorial. I have to tell you that when they called for people to say something about my friend, I could only think of all the times she listened to me. She was one of those people who didn't offer advice, but I wanted it because I knew she just knew what I was talking about. I asked her a lot of questions about parenting. She had five children. I only have one. Usually, her advice was mild and patient, as if I would figure things out if I just thought about them for a while. It kind of reminded me of my grandpa's advice. It was the best kind of advice, quiet and thoughtful, you-can-figure-this-out kind of advice.
She sometimes brought Nick gifts, a few stamps to add to his collection, food she had canned that she knew he would like, toys her grandchildren had outgrown.
Instead of clumping with my usual cohorts after the service, I sat down with a woman who looked like my friend. I wanted to tell her how lucky she was to have such a solid mom, someone who was patient and understood the world. I wanted to hug her, to talk until I could see if she had inherited the same kind of view of the world. I believe, after my short visit with her, that she had.
There are five people in this world whose mom was even-tempered, who was down-to-earth, who was firm and honest and always friendly. And I saw that at least one of these people had been given those same gifts. I'm sure the rest benefited from them even if they weren't born with the same temperaments.
Hell, I benefited from her temperament. I'm sure I was more patient and yet still firm with Nick because I knew this woman and asked her for advice now and then.
And I ate some of the zucchinis that she grew. I loved getting excess zucchinis. I'm going to miss those zucchinis. I really am.
Thank you for listening, jb
It's been a hard day. A friend of mine died and today was her memorial. I have to tell you that when they called for people to say something about my friend, I could only think of all the times she listened to me. She was one of those people who didn't offer advice, but I wanted it because I knew she just knew what I was talking about. I asked her a lot of questions about parenting. She had five children. I only have one. Usually, her advice was mild and patient, as if I would figure things out if I just thought about them for a while. It kind of reminded me of my grandpa's advice. It was the best kind of advice, quiet and thoughtful, you-can-figure-this-out kind of advice.
She sometimes brought Nick gifts, a few stamps to add to his collection, food she had canned that she knew he would like, toys her grandchildren had outgrown.
Instead of clumping with my usual cohorts after the service, I sat down with a woman who looked like my friend. I wanted to tell her how lucky she was to have such a solid mom, someone who was patient and understood the world. I wanted to hug her, to talk until I could see if she had inherited the same kind of view of the world. I believe, after my short visit with her, that she had.
There are five people in this world whose mom was even-tempered, who was down-to-earth, who was firm and honest and always friendly. And I saw that at least one of these people had been given those same gifts. I'm sure the rest benefited from them even if they weren't born with the same temperaments.
Hell, I benefited from her temperament. I'm sure I was more patient and yet still firm with Nick because I knew this woman and asked her for advice now and then.
And I ate some of the zucchinis that she grew. I loved getting excess zucchinis. I'm going to miss those zucchinis. I really am.
Thank you for listening, jb
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