“I want to make it to 90,” Pierre told me when he
was 88. His parents had only lived to their 70s, but others in his family had
lived longer.
“We should have a party,” I suggested. He liked that
idea. I mean, if you’re going to live that long, you deserve a celebration.
“You could have dancing girls.”
His eyes lit up. He liked that idea, too.
We never had a chance to discuss details. Pierre
died last January, a short time after his 89th birthday.
We don’t always remember our friends on their
birthdays. Sometimes we remember them on the day they died. November 22 is the
day we remember President John F. Kennedy, not May 17, his birthday. September
11 is the day we remember those who were killed in the 2001 terrorist attacks. Those
deaths were very public, so that’s understandable.
Sometimes we remember them on holidays because those
are times we traditionally gather together and reminisce. My friend, Mary
Ellen, was born on Christmas Eve, so that’s when I remember her.
But often we remember on their birthdays. Many of
our holidays are someone’s birthday: Martin Luther King, Jr., George
Washington, Abraham Lincoln.
And why not? Why shouldn’t we remember our friends
on the anniversary of the day they came into this world? That’s the day that
made our friendship possible.
It’s sad, though, especially the first year after
they died. I’ve been thinking about Pierre all week, wondering if I could write
about him today. After all, it took me almost a year to write about him at all.
But then I remembered that day at his house. I’d
sent him a sinfully rich chocolate cheesecake for his birthday a few weeks
earlier, so the topic came up easily (birthdays, not chocolate). He told me he was
prepared for death whenever it came. His body had gone through a lot, and he
wasn’t interested in staying alive just because medical science said it was
possible.
He still saw beauty in little things: sitting in the
warm sunshine on his front porch, watching the traffic speed up and down the
Glen; a cozy cashmere sweater (or two); a funny story.
When he said he wanted to make it to 90, I knew it
was a long-shot. He wasn’t going to have surgery just to get to that milestone,
and that was his right. I also knew if he was told he wouldn’t make it, he’d
probably just shrug that typically French, incredibly sexy shrug. I imagine he
felt that making it to 89 was close enough. And it was, technically, his 90th
year.
So I choose to remember Pierre today, on what
would’ve been his 90th birthday, rather than later in the month, on
the first anniversary of his death.
Maybe one of your friends died last year, too. And
of course the first anniversary will be hard. But how about getting out your
calendar and marking their birthday on it?
Decide to spend part of that day remembering them:
do something you two used to do together, go someplace you both loved, dig out
your photo album (remember those?) and wallow in good memories; call a mutual
friend and swap stories.
It’s hard. I know it’s hard. But soon you won’t
focus on how sad you are that they’re gone. Instead you’ll feel how very grateful
you are that they were a part of your life.
Because that friendship – like all our friendships –
made us who we are today.
1 comment:
Wow! Congratulations on your past, present, and future endeavors Ms. Viki!!!
Post a Comment