~ from OCTOBER 2004 ~
The dead come to mind at strange times. Someone I haven’t thought of in years suddenly sprang into my head as I drove back to work from lunch. Her name was Diane. A friend of my Mom’s from nursing school, she died a while ago from breast cancer I think. For no reason at all she was remembered. Maybe it’s all this talk of shades. Ghosts can tell when they are welcome. Andy believes this.
On a summer vacation in Cape Cod, my Mom brought Diane with us. My brother and I were a handful, and Dad was long since sick of taking trips, so Diane was my Mom’s escape, her hedge against excessive bad and embarrassing behavior. It worked out well. Diane took an interest in the crabs we caught and the various beach games we played, and most important of all she told me how to force paperwhite narcissus.
It seemed a cozy thing to do, and in the cool night breeze of the Cape the thought of fall evenings was ever n the periphery. I asked her to repeat the process over and over again on that trip, to the point where she was exasperated and tired of my requests, but I couldn’t get enough of it – her slightly sky drawl, coarse from years of cigarettes, and the way she described each step so meticulously.
She grew African violets beneath fluorescent lights and on the windowsill of her apartment, somewhere in Guilderland. I didn’t hear of her death until a few years after the fact.
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