This month, Amy and I would have been friends for twenty-five years. Half our lives. But Amy died eleven months ago. This month, I didn't send her the annual valentine marking the anniversary of our friendship. Instead, I brace for the anniversary of her death.
Still, Amy makes her presence known: I gesture or grimace and then exclaim, "That's an Amy thing I just did!" Marilyn nods in recognition.
And there are her letters, her words.
"You have a letter from Amy!" Marilyn would call out, as she entered the house with the mail.
Every week or so, a letter in a small green or ivory envelope would arrive with that familiar handwriting in black or green ink. I almost took them for granted, they were that frequent. But I didn't.
Sometimes, I opened the letter right away, standing in the kitchen, reading quickly. Other times, I saved it until the quiet of bedtime. I kept all her letters. Now, I turn to them when I need to hear her voice.
Today, my daily poem from the Academy of American Poets was "February 29"by Jane Hirshfield, one of my favorite poets. I was struck by the last lines of the poem:
"An extra day—
Extraordinarily like any other.
And still
there is some generosity to it,
like a letter re-readable after its writer has died."
And still
there is some generosity to it,
like a letter re-readable after its writer has died."
