A friend of mine died yesterday.
[This is personal and I just need to unload it. If you're not into that, feel free to move on, it will self-destruct shortly anyway.]
Perhaps “friend” is too strong a word. Perhaps I dishonor her by claiming a relationship that reality did not reflect, but “acquaintance” does not convey the impact she had on my world. I knew her, and fairly well, I think, although my knowledge of her came through the gloss of a professional relationship.
She gave me shoes. I love shoes. I love shoes like only an Imelda-clone could. It was a wasted gift. It’s been many years since my feet refused to further support my obsession with dressing them.
Her death was tragic in that it was sudden and unexpected, but she was not a young woman. Perhaps she was spared a long, drawn-out ordeal. I hope so. I hope she wasn’t simply cheated.
She was Irish and Catholic, and all that that implies. Other than her temper, there were no obvious tells - no cultural oddities, no religious rites, no brogue, no particularly ethnic family names. But upon meeting her, you would know. You would know that her hair used to flame red, that there were freckles under the age spots, and that 10 minutes in the hot desert sun would sear her skin to a painful shade of deep pink. You would know that her son was an altar boy and that every few months, she would confess her darkest sins to the same man who once tried to drown her in holy water. You would know that rosary beads hung on her bedpost. You would just know.
She was a wife, a mother, and a pillar of the community. Starting in the mail-room, so to speak, she worked hard to build a career. She carefully cultivated the relationships that made some measure of success possible in a male-dominated world. She mastered the art of manipulation, and she sipped from the fountain of power. She was a ladder climber, and largely unapologetic. She earned the respect of some, and the envy of many.
She could be mean. Mean as only a woman who has spent her life futilely beating on glass ceilings can be. Vindictive. Spiteful. Vengeful. Even petty. She was not to be trifled with, not in any context. But you couldn’t count on her anger. You couldn’t rely on her rage. She was the kind of woman who would be ready to quite literally remove your spleen with a grapefruit spoon one minute, and organizing a barn-raising to help you out the next. Approaching each with the same honest fervor, and genuinely clueless as to why her motives might be subject to question. The duality was inherent in her. The ability to mete out both harsh punishment for the slightest wrong, and overwhelming assistance for the smallest need, in virtually the same breath. It was truly a talent to behold.
I pissed her off once. While hurtful to her personally, my actions were professionally defensible, arguably mandatory. Her retribution was swift, and I paid a high price for my actions. She never apologized, but she offered me the best salve she had. An evening spent sharing a bottle of very old, and very expensive, Scotch. It had been a gift to her from a very special person on a very special occasion. After carving out my spleen, she disinfected the wound. She shared both the worst and the best of herself with me.
It is hard to articulate that quality in a way that those who did not know her might understand. But in the end, I think it is about acceptance. Acceptance of the fact that people are people, and for the most part, people, including yourself, suck. But if you believe yourself to be worthy of others, then the reverse must also be true, that they are worthy of you. Even when they suck. Regardless of the suck. It's a powerful lesson.
I never knew a more generous soul, or one more committed to the preservation of family and the spirit of community. I will miss you KJ.