Stories
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From:
Connie Smith
I lost my best friend today
What do you do when you your best friend dies? Do you cry, do you sob, do you fall down on the ground and crawl? I lost my best friend today One of the worst days when I got that call
We knew all our secrets and kept them safe You knew my heart and knew me best We got each other through when we needed it most I know with all my heart you are now at rest
The memories and the face-hurting laughs We both thought we’d never be apart Like synchronized swimmers together we moved We were always two halves of one heart
I can talk to you but you won’t talk back Except in my dreams where your comfort will be I can’t imagine not sharing my fears, my tears with you But there’s the knowing someday you’ll come get me
No getting old together, no rocking chairs for us No hearing your voice or your laugh on the phone I’ll have to keep plowing ahead. I know I must. But your death has cut me to my very bones.
The days and nights we spent together Two birds flying and tumbling in the sky We loved being together, singing and dancing And now part of me, along with you, has died
I will always miss you and love you, Barbara Ruth! I’m honored to be your friend and share our truth!
Forever, Barb, Forever,
Con
By Connie Smith
June 7, 2020 – 1 week after you died I completed this.
From:
Julia Owen
Aunt Bam loved to walk, and not just around the block, but through neighborhoods, for miles. We both loved nothing more than sporting athletic wear all day, every day. Even today, I’ll be pulling on running shorts and an especially snug running top and find myself thinking of Aunt Bam.
One summer when she was visiting us in Denver we spent hours just walking to places; the park, the warehouse district, a cool Victorian house on the corner. One day we walked from our house to Pearl Street, a red brick neighborhood with shops called things like “The Ruffly Rose”. On the main street, (also red brick) we passed Sexy Pizza and Uno Mas Taqueria, and finally the pièce de résistance - Arepas! Soft corn flour and beans, homemade cheese and avocado, an arepa is like a little corn pillow filled with salty cheese and cilantro. In her characteristic enthusiasm, Aunt Bam was immediately appreciative of the menu, then as she was reading a gasp, and a little celebratory punch to my bicep. Mystified, I scanned the menu as well, the Havana special, the fried plantains, the coors banquet? And there it was, the passion fruit juice, another of the many eerie things we had in common, a deep, inexplicable passion for the passion fruit. I didn’t know anyone else who actually loved the tart little fruit like I do, but Aunt Bam did. I think we got one glass and said we would share, her leaving me the majority of it (she was characteristically generous too). It was a simple, delightful moment.
We often talked about going to Savannah, Georgia and sitting on a bench together to people-watch and drink iced coffee. We often talked of going to Mexico and watching the waves roll in and out for a literal day. We must have walked for two hours that day, and over the trip we probably walked for a full day past red stone houses and tire swings, and even some homemade wood art.