I went to my friend’s funeral. It was a long journey, full of rain. I carried a dog scuffle injury. There were so many familiar faces there. Words were spoken, stories told, pictures shown. Laughs, tears, lemon slice, memories of the place it was.The time it was.
If my uncle were there, I can imagine him saying “Anyway, we gave her a good send-off.” If he himself wasn’t dead. If he had known her.
My friend J. died.
We hadn’t been in touch for a while. Last time I saw her she drove across to my place, phoning me about every 10 minutes to get directions, Drinking tea with me when she finally arrived she was positively scathing about certain persons suggesting she might have Alzheimer’s.
She did, of course & god dammit, have it. Alzheimer’s. The disease that takes you away while you’re still here, the same but different. She wasn’t at home when she died, but was in the company of her treasured daughter.
Back in the day we were neighbours. I volunteered and she had a paying job at the same organisation. She had a little schoolgirl and I a toddler. She took to visiting me in the years we were a corner away from each other. Sometimes she’d bring her daughter, always, her dog. The dog would power down the passage from the front door and, depending on the season, find itself the coolest or warmest spot to curl up on in my living room.
Once, when I had a bit of a broken heart J. scooped me up for a trip to the gardens on the edge of the city. There were brides and grooms being photographed as far as the eye could see. “Look at them,” she had a theatrical screech in her voice. “Poor suckers!” I think that was the moment I learned that mortification can’t kill you.Another time, with another friend, she organised a surprise trip to the opera for my birthday. It was about time I showed up, she said in a very polite way.
We talked about anything and everything. The pace was ours, as we slowly peeled back the layers of the other, learning about lives already lived and selves we had been. J. was more political than I in the beginning, and, maybe, always. She never let a day go by without reading the newspaper of choice for the discerning activist. “It’s like an old friend,” she would say. I tried to catch up.
We lived further apart but still in the same suburb. We still visited, met while we were out and about or at someone’s party. J. loved a party, especially one of her own. In the end, we knew a lot of the same people. I moved out to try life in a country town as gentrification rampaged through our neighborhood. Some years later she moved out to a slightly bigger town, leaving her newly gentrified home behind. We met one day in a supermarket in her town. It had been a long time since we’d seen each other. We were at the Christmas card catch-up stage by then.
The friendship became, briefly, more active again. Once I said I hoped she got my apology for missing her latest big 0 birthday party. She said, “Look, to tell you the truth I can’t remember if you were there or not.” I recovered myself and laughed, with her. She sent me two, maybe three Christmas cards and letters one season.
She was disappearing.
I probably never thanked Judy properly for the decades of friendship. For her regular visits with Polly the dog when I lived around the corner. The wisdom & encouragement dispensed, the gossip mulled over, the way she’d throw her head back & positively cackle with glee.
For being one of a small posse of women who began the task of properly educating me in matters of feminism, activism & what is now known as networking. Oh, & mothering too!
Always ready for another cuppa, another topic, another challenge.
Thanks heaps Judy ( I’m sorry, I never could quite adapt to Judith). I honor your memory as a woman who made a difference, who made the world a better place. For me, & for so many others.
*Buckets of Rain, Bob Dylan 1974.
RosieL
endgame 