From Memory
A Life, Bookended.
In elementary school Veronica was one of my daughter Hannah’s closest friends. Veronica was smart and funny and kind, one of those kids who was genuinely polite without being a suck-up. At least once a week I would pick Hannah up after she’d spent the afternoon at Veronica’s, or drop Veronica off after she’d spent the afternoon with us.
Their friendship continued though middle school. The first formal dance Hannah ever went to was with a boy she hardly knew and didn’t particularly like, and Veronica was in the same boat. The saving grace was that Hannah and Veronica got to sit at a table together. I have a photo from that night. They look like they are playing dress-up.
We moved to another town when Hannah started high school, and over time, she and Veronica lost touch. I always imagined Veronica, who’d been a conscientious student, doing well wherever she landed in life.
Then, I stopped thinking about her. Life goes on; that’s normal. Veronica faded into sweet background, then disappeared.
Yesterday, Hannah called me. Toward the end of the conversation, she asked if I remembered Veronica. Of course, I told her.
She died.
What?
She died.
Oh my god, how?
I don’t know, but from what I could glean it sounded like she’d been sick for a while. I’ll text it to you.
The obituary appeared on my phone. She looked mature, elegant, but in her level gaze and soft smile was the girl I remembered.
She’d gone to Northeastern, stayed in Boston. She worked in hospitality. As I’d imagined in the days I used to wonder about her, she’d done well where she landed.
It’s very strange when someone goes from doing a history project in your kitchen to a face in an obituary. Their existence is bookended by childhood and death, with empty space in between.
Veronica is on my mind today. I see her turning to wave goodbye after we’ve dropped her off, her porch light a halo behind her. Over time, I’d forgotten to miss that girl, but today, I remember.