I realized today that I have no recollection of first meeting Lisa. For the first 30-odd years of my life she wasn't in it... And then she was. A fixture. We were each other's shadows, finishing each other's sentences, laughing hysterically at the other's jokes or self-deprecating humour. Endless cups of tea. Drives up into Caledon, our daughters yapping in the back seat. Her delicate fingers fiddling with a ring, a pen. She drove me crazy, the way she never put a lot of water in the kettle for tea. She made the best lemon loaf.
Even when she and Laura moved back to Vancouver, and then to Arizona, then back to BC, we never lost touch. Letters, gifts, then video calls that went late into the night. We'd share our news and then I would ask, "how are you? Really...?" She was so honest and open, so brave and determined. Unselfish, always. Able to laugh, even if she was crying. Able to offer comfort, even while she was hurting.
Such a friend.
My sweet Lisa... The night Duncan called with the news of your death, after I'd cried myself hoarse, I wandered outside into the garden of our new home where we'd only been living for a few days; the home you were going to come to visit in the fall. I sat down on a lawn chair and started to cry again, alone in the dark. A few minutes later I started to see flecks of light, and I realized that there were fireflies darting and dancing in amongst the trees. And I thought, How fitting. I didn't get all soppy, thinking that you, Lisa, were one of those little creatures zipping silently overhead. But they reminded me so much of you; quiet, small, maybe just looking fairly ordinary... But then, when our world got dark, you were a delicate, magical burst of light.
Fly safely away, my firefly. I'll see you again. Fill the kettle (if they have kettles in heaven) with enough water for two.