Portrait of A Lady...

Sometimes, Thursdays were my Sundays.

I saw her every Thursday that she felt like it, unless I was sick or out of town. Sometimes, we saw each other on Sundays. But mostly, Thursdays were our day.

We had the same routine every week. I was always about ten minutes late. Her dog always barked at me, like I was after the good silver and all his doggie treats. Sometimes, she would show me pictures of ridiculous shoes in the Neiman Marcus Catalogue, and we would laugh wondering how anyone could ever walk in shoes like that, much less afford them. She would tell me about recipes she had tried, or ones she wanted to try. We talked about her kids and her beloved husband, Lloyd. She always asked about my family, any guys I might be dating, and would sometimes tease me that I had better not wait too long to start having babies, if I was going to have them. I would ask her about how she was feeling, and she was usually pretty honest, which means I didn't always hear happy answers. But this is what we did, week in and week out, whether we were at the top of our game or at the bottom of the hill.

Her living room was a holy place. The carpet, the pictures, the knick-knacks, the granny square throw on the arm of the couch, her chair, her mail table, the clock with shells that her daughter-in-law sent her from Florida, and the way she almost always had the card I sent her the week before poised on the coffee table that sat between us—this was our sanctuary. This is where we met, prayed, talked, laughed, cried, shared, and fed each other. This was our pantry, where we went to get our bread and drink. And this is what we did, week in and week out, whether we were at the top of our game or at the bottom of the hill.

Communion was a holy moment for us. Me in one chair, her in the other, the little dog perched on an ottoman between us…”This is the Body of Christ, the Bread of Heaven”. I would say to her, and I would put the Host in her hand, and I would hold it there for a minute, mostly just to hold her hand in those moments. To remind her that even though she couldn't come to the building, that this was church, that this was just as real, that she was and is just as important as anyone else, that she was and is a part of who I am as a person of faith.. She always met my eye. We had an understanding. We knew.

I hated leaving her house, every single time I did it. Saying goodbye to the safe, warm place we made, seeing her George Burns' rosebush fade into the distance... I hated leaving her house. The dog would get after me again, always while I was giving her a hug goodbye. She knew I would call her next week, but I would tell her that, anyway. She would always tell me “Thank you”, even though I knew she was thankful and she would always tell me she loved me, even though I knew that, too. She would lock the door behind me, and I would wait until I heard the bolt turn, before I made my way across the lawn, back to my little car, on to the next place.

Sometimes, Thursdays were my Sundays.

For my darling friend Arlene, this Thursday is a forever Sunday. And she's probably already in the kitchen, dancing and laughing, and waiting for the rest of us to show up and eat.

Such grace, such incredible strength, such a woman...

mil besos,

rmg