She's a little wisp of a thing. But she can move mountains.
We met fourteen years ago when we lived in a little fishing hamlet on the shores of a huge, mountain-ringed bay in Alaska, she and her husband with two little boys; us with none yet. Their family took us into their hearts and their lives as we spent winter evenings with them, chatting and laughing over dinner in their tiny, snow-covered mainland-side cabin, and long-lit days across the bay in summer where they lived on their island and fished salmon from icy-cold waters.
She became the dearest of friends. A kindred spirit. A sister.
Through the following years, we cooked together, hiked together, laughed together, cried together, nurtured our babies together, sang together, and prayed together. Once, when I was on bed-rest, she drove five hours to fluff my pillows and make me a sandwich, cut up into pretty little shapes. And another time, when we'd arrived at a place of tragedy in our lives, she was there, carrying us. "In my heart", she said.
It was her dream for us to take a trip together, she and I, after our last babies were weaned. A 'jubilee trip' she called it. Our jubilee took us through the south, staying at bed and breakfasts along the way in Florida, Georgia, and North Carolina, to a cabin in the mountains of Tennessee. She read aloud to me while I drove, then insisted on cooking my dinners and giving me the most comfortable and fluffy of beds. Somewhere along the way, we ate boiled peanuts for the very first time.
It was important to her that each of us find something on that trip that we could save forever as a reminder of our journey of friendship and rest. She found hers in a music shop in a small Tennessee town. A hand-made dulcimer with heart-shaped cut-outs for the music to flow through. It was perfectly her. My treasure came a few days later, found in a little shop on the Atlantic coast. She was as anxious for me to find it as I was. A necklace. The one you see there.
Yesterday, I wore that necklace. It had been a while since I'd last reached for it, and it seemed to be the one I should wear for the day. And, of course, I thought of Ann. I always do.
Scarcely an hour after I'd laid the necklace aside for the night, I was awakened by an urgent call.
Ann had suffered a massive heart attack.
She was undergoing bypass surgery that would last most of the night, her life hanging by a thread. And she, only in her forties.
Through the night, I tossed, paced, and knelt. Sleep was scarce, tears and prayers were plentiful.
My Ann. She made it through surgery in the wee hours of the morning. Now, we wait.
I wait. I think. I remember.
The last time I was with her on the island, it was the loveliest of summer's days. From where I sat at the piano in the empty little handmade church they'd just built out on a point, I could look out the many windows to the panoramic view of shore and sky and sea. I sat and I played. The wide-open door gave way for the music to slip outside and roll down the beach to where Ann sat smiling and humming. She loved it that way.
My Ann.
Today, I'm wearing the necklace. And I'll sit at my piano.
And I'll play.
And I'll pray.
For Ann.