Bluest eyes

Aronia on the left and Maria on the right. Both now have flown.

I saw the email and saw it was from one of the activities directors at the senior residence where I facilitate a memoir workshop. And in the subject line, I saw the name of one of my charter members of the workshop: Aronia. Oh no. That could only mean what yes, I was to discover, Aronia had transitioned. And my first thought was "I will never see her at my table again." And then I realized I have to teach an ESL class to 25+ adults in two hours and how would I do it? Be high energy and happy now, knowing what I know?

So I wrote back to Katie and this is what I said, and this is all I can say right now. This line of work means knowing you may not see a writer the next time you come to facilitate. And this is why I vow to speed up the production and reality of Elder Campfire: What I Want You to Know Before I Go.

I do not have Aronia's voice recorded.

Aww, Katie, I was dreading the day you had to tell me. Aronia is very special to me. She is the one who showed up and kept it going. She started out making things up in her stories and she made me laugh so hard with her writings. A hoot. And even though she could be cross, she loved the writing process and held it up high and kept memoir alive and well at Flushing House. I will miss her blue eyes and sharp, funny one liners. I will never forget the day she said, "They think we are children," and that's when I knew memoir was rich and purposeful. For none of them are children. They are wise and carrying a wealth of stories of resilience and love of life.

Most of all, I owe Aronia my continued strength as a memoir facilitator for one day she turned and looked at me (you know when you think, uh oh, what's she going to say?) and she asked, "Do you come up with these ideas?" and I meekly answered, "Yes," and she looked me in the eye and said, "You have a talent for this." I sat there, humbled and thankful.

I saw her two weeks ago, sitting outside, thin and subdued. I knew then the chances of her returning to memoir were slim. I carry with me a felt tip pen that she wrote with because of her eyesight. I will keep it and think of her every time I see a similar one. I am so glad I got to tell her that day how memoir was not the same without her and how she made it so special. "That is very nice of you to say," she said, and I meant it with all my heart.

I will never forget her and I must think of clever and hardy ways to invigorate our workshop to keep her love for it going.

Thank you for telling me.

Much regard and sadness,

Sheela