Goodnight, Dear Marilyn

Pardon the glare and poor composition of this photo, please. Focus* instead on the joy in the moment that is captured here. And where is here? Tombstone, Arizona, children, in some bar in February of 1984. My friend Theresa, in hat with camera to the left, and I had driven down from South Dakota to visit my Mom and sis Martine. I'm in the middle, Mom is behind me, Martine is in front of me. To the right is Mom's friend Marilyn, also visiting from SD. This was the only photo I could find of Marilyn, though I'm sure more exist in my most disorganized photo boxes. She and Mom were very good friends for a number of years. They met as co-workers and remained friends through my mom's many career changes and moves from one place to another. When I lived in Brookings, I always enjoyed bumping into her in a grocery aisle or on the bike trail near her apartment and having a quick catch-up chat. Because Mom seemed to me to be at loose ends in her life, I was grateful to Marilyn who was something of an anchor, a friend who stayed in touch and cared for her in ways the rest of us couldn't manage. Mom wasn't easy to get close to and she cut ties with so many people along the way that it was comforting to know there were those chosen few who made the effort to maintain contact. When Mom died in 2010, it fell to me to make a number of phone calls to share that sad news. One of those calls was to Marilyn, and a most difficult one for me to make. She had been diagnosed with scleroderma a few years before, and its effects on her ability to speak had increasingly made her more homebound and also made it difficult to understand her on the phone. I think that was the last time I talked to her. For some reason, Marilyn popped into my head a couple of days ago and I couldn't shake the feeling that something had happened. The internet informed me by way of her obituary that she had died in August and that per her request there would be no funeral service. She was survived by a couple of nephews and their wives, she had been widowed years before and her parents had also passed. She and her husband, Ralph, whom she always referred to as my Ralph, did not have children. It's sad when you outlive most of your family and friends and there is no one left to mourn you. I do believe it's the connections to others that make life meaningful. Marilyn and my mom were friends, and in honor of that friendship, today I will light a candle to celebrate those years.

*Pardon also, please, my intentional photo-related pun.