Guest Blogger — Peter Menard

I am glad that I am still here to make a second contribution to Chris’ blog.

Though I’ve realized that I am like an old junker car, the kind when you bring it in for a check-up or inspection, the mechanics cluck their tongues and say “the good news is it’s not dead yet.  But you have to work on the brakes/air filter/main bearings/etc. to make it road-worthy.” Then they console you with the adder “But it has good torque…”

My cancer has been a) fomenting liters of fluid build-up in my lungs, b) interfering with a kidney, c) producing prodigious amounts of mucus and spit, d) etc.  “But your blood is better….”.  Actually, these things sound like plumbing problems, and the solutions were from the plumbing repertoire; namely drains and hoses and periodic suction pumps.  Maybe I’m more like an old junker washing machine.

So January was a rough month.  I lost a lot of weight again quickly, and had trouble eating.  Probably due to cold (yes, I know it was an easy winter), and the succession of junker plumbing repairs.

I spent way a lot of time in hospital rooms, leading to these thoughts:

In a hospital bed, the room’s
dust of despair, bleak sadness
an ache behind the eyes,
A pallor of mind.
The room haunted
by death and pain?
It is the best medical care,
The nurses are cheerful
But used to it.

And after rhyming:

Lying in a hospital bed
the dust of despair blinds
behind the eyes, a dread
aching pallor of mind.
From wraiths of death and pain?
It is the best medical care,
the nurses are cheerful and humane
but immunized to despair.

Not sure which version I like better.

Hoping of course that Oscar Wilde’s observation would hold true, namely (or wordly) that by describing my reaction to hospital rooms, the reaction will go away before my next hospital stay.

But I have been thinking about Oscar’s truism: “Nothing survives being talked of”.  It became codified in my worldview when I was in my late 20’s.  I remember clearly stating, “I will never go to Lagos, Kinshasa, or South Africa.”  Not two years later I found myself in the Congo for a 9-month stint, and two after that flying into Johannesburg.  Once I noticed this personal phenomenon, I realized that merely saying I wasn’t going to do something automatically increased the odds that I would in fact do it.  Oscar’s saying seemed to explain this phenomenon.

But of course it is not true on several levels.  On the other hand maybe it is true for important things.  I think really important things, like aspects of relationships, or experiences of emotions, are almost impossible to describe in English, and I suspect in any language.  So perhaps what is true about Oscar’s insight is that talking of important things is doomed to failure, since it is so devilishly difficult to express what you really mean. So such things do not survive being talked of.

Now in my 60’s, my thoughts turn to Goethe’s “For there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.”  I think Goethe implies that if I think up good and positive narratives of my adventures with cancer, then I might make my adventures be good and positive.  I’m still thinking about that.

Getting back to January, it was hard to lose muscles the second time, the first being my tumor’s initial onslaught on my body announcing its existence.  I worked hard to get healthy and strong after biweekly chemo treatments allowed me to regain a handle on life with my tumor.  My wife and battle buddy and I exercise cultishly (we go to crossfit), and I am back near as strong as I was before January.  But I’m not there yet, and I know that because in hockey almost anybody can lift my stick and steal the puck.  Pre-cancer, that never happened; and last December I had reached near that level of play again.  But my game now is marred by opponents’ ability to steal the puck with ease.  And I’m not even talking about essential skills such as skating and shooting – you can guess my level of ineptitude in those aspects of the game.

At least my arms and legs are not the sticks that they had shrunk to in January.  Interestingly, at our last meeting my oncologist said that Dana Farber and some institution in California had become aware of some possible relationships between muscle mass and cancer and cancer treatments.  The idea would be a clinical trial or study to determine if having more muscle mass is correlated with more positive outcomes in patients with cancer.

Early in my cancer career we attended a Dana workshop on Alternative Therapies that might augment standard cancer treatment.  Exercise was highlighted as the most effective Alternative Therapy then known.  Exercise increased positive outcomes 30-35% in patients undergoing regular cancer treatment programs.  Good diet and nutrition were second most effective, at around 20%.

I’m pretty sure communicating with your tumor via your vagus nerve was not on the list of Alternative Therapies at all.  In my previous contribution to Chris’ blog I outlined a line of reasoning for, and possible strategies to open lines of communication with my tumors.  I’ve not made much progress.  I think I’ve been able to identify some sensations and body states that might involve my vagus nerve.  I tried sending messages to my tumors encouraging them to shrink.  The mother tumor perhaps has done that, to the extent that CT scan reports don’t even mention it anymore, and CT reports seem scrupulous at describing only what is there on the screen.  No conjectures about why the dog didn’t bark in the night are to be found in CT reports.  But if it is not mentioned, I think that is a good sign.

The little seedling tumors that are spread around my abdomen are getting bigger a millimeter or so in a two-month span.  At the last meeting my oncologist said that the tiny seedling tumors are actually what he is most concerned with (a little tidbit that was a bit of an eye opener to me.  I had heretofore concentrated my attention on the mother tumor).

About this time I realized that most likely my tumors don’t speak English (otherwise I could have bombarded them with the Oscar Wilde treatment).  I have to learn tumor language, which is probably steroids and hormones and blood biochemicals.  Maybe they have their own form of messenger RNA twitter. Through meditation I have worked on getting my center of focus to locate somewhere else besides eye level.  I think I can get it down to my diaphragm through breathing awareness, but the diaphragm doesn’t seem like a particularly communicative organ.  So now I’m trying to go up the chain of command to the brain stem and cerebellum, which I believe do send messages via the vagus to the area where the tumors are.  If I could only learn how.

More Chris

People are still finding their way here.  There hasn’t been a new post for several weeks and I haven’t been on the site so I haven’t checked the hits.  Still plenty, enough that the numbers would make me happy about my own blog.  Chris checked her stats often.  Like all the writers I know, it mattered to her that people read what she wrote.

So here’s more of Chris’ writing, from the class she took at Harvard Extension in 2007.  Based on the numbering of the documents, this appears to be her first piece from the class.  There are more stories to post, which I will.  But I want more of the magic of emails appearing in my inbox with something one of you out there wants to share.  A story about Chris, a story of your own that connects to Chris, a photo? The email address to be in touch is at the end, so send me something.  — Grace

 

Greece
by Chris

I walked barefoot in Athens in 1972 and was asked by an old man in a museum, “How much do you charge”?  I paused.  I didn’t understand.  I looked at the pictures and looked back at the man wondering if he was talking to me.  It was hot, sticky hot.  The sun shimmered on the pave stones.  Little beads of sweat ran down my back, gathered at my waist.  When I left the youth hostel that morning, I dressed in as little as possible.  My old cut off jeans barely covered my ass.  The cotton peasant blouse I bought was light and airy.  And I went barefoot.  The gentle breeze felt cool to my unrestricted toes.

What did he mean?  He was older than my father, small even a little shrunken.  His hair was gray and greasy.  I was half studying a painting, floating in a haze. I t was cooler inside, white walls and high ceilings.  I looked at him and shrugged.  He became more emphatic and demanded loudly “how much”?   “You go with me, you fuck?”

“What?”

I looked away trying to study the painting.   My cheeks felt hot, hotter than the day.  I concentrated on the painting.  He gave up and walked away.

Later, walking down the streets, seeing the young Greek women draped in black, their skin hidden, I wondered.  Then I felt someone squeeze my ass.  I jumped, startled.  Two young men with coy smiles stared at me.  I walked faster and looked down.  I heard giggling behind me.  I felt the sweat running down my back.  I ducked into another museum and felt the cool interior.  They did not follow me.

I was traveling alone for two weeks until I had to be in England for the start of school.  It was a semester abroad and I was taking advantage of crossing the ocean by spending time in Greece before school. My major in philosophy seemed to come alive everywhere I turned.  Athens was white and blue and bustling at all times of the day.  The Parthenon floated over the city, grand and dominant.  Everywhere you looked was ancient history.  You could almost see Plato sitting among the columns, conversing with his students.  At night, the Platka was full of lights and sounds.  Music and talking and laughter filled the small alleys.  A full moon lit the majestic ruins casting mysterious shadows.  I sat in a café with a couple of Americans sipping ouzo with my shoes on.

Days later, I befriended a Greek American boy my age, twenty or so.  He led me down narrow stairs to a wine cellar with big stainless steel drums full of retsina.  The small wooden tables were occupied by old men.  The men cast sly glances at my new friend.  I told him what had happened.  He laughed at me. He told me only prostitutes went barefoot in Athens.  Americans girls were known to be easy.  Greek girls were carefully guarded.  Covered from head to toe in black, they went out only with their mothers.  I blushed feeling the heat in my cheeks and in my toes.

Contributor Note:  Send me something for the blog at chrisguestblogger@gmail.com

A Letter From Chris

 

Jon has been cleaning out the bedroom that Chris used as her study and keeps “unexpectedly finding little pieces of her.” Below is a letter she wrote to herself last year.  Those of us who loved Chris could easily see her grace and strength in living with her illness, which sometimes masked how difficult her path was in staying grounded and present to her life.

April 22, 2015

Dear Chris,

You are here now so be here now and in the next moment be there.  This moment is here and you are well enough to write a letter to yourself.  Stay positive when you can.  Be gracious and forgiving and inclusive.  Face your fears and put them aside when you can.  Stay honest.  Let people know where you are but think about others.  Stay grounded- find happiness where you can but don’t ignore the sadness.  Recognize the sadness and then let it go.  Ill or not Life is a process.  Keep writing as I know my essays have helped others.  Find the light, always find the light.

Chris Way

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Good Grief

Everyone remembers the line from Peanuts, “Good grief Charlie Brown.” It was usually exclaimed by Lucy or Patty. When I wrote about grief before, I started to think about whether grief could be good. Grief is an emotion like joy or sadness but does it have a purpose? Does it help a person get over sadness or is it just an expression of it? It has been six months now since Chris’s death. The tears that are an expression of sadness and grief come less often. I remember when Chris was first diagnosed with breast cancer and I cried for three days but I got over it because she was still there. When she was diagnosed with metastatic cancer I cried for three days but I got over it because she was still there. Now after six months I still cry because she is not there. One of my sons said he had never seen me cry before. The first time they were too young to notice and the second time they were not at home. I suspect when grief overwhelms the tears lessen it. I remember reading about tears lessening an emotional stimulus. There are still tears almost every day. I guess that is progress. They come on suddenly and unexpectedly as a manifestation of grief becoming too intense or showing up unexpectedly. It is like the poem in this blog called “Still Connected.” It says it perfectly and I read it regularly. The most recent trigger occurred when I got the flyer from the Museum of Fine Arts, “Art in Bloom.” Last year at this time it was the last trip Chris and I took to the Museum of Fine Arts and it was to see the “Art in Bloom.”

So what is good grief? I got distracted. I think good grief is the process of learning to cope with the loss. It is the emotion of learning to be apart. It diminishes over time but never goes away. It is replaced by new connections and experiences. It is diminished by sharing it. I learned late in life that sharing stress and anxiety can be helpful in relieving or diminishing them. So I guess grief is good to share and helps to cope with loss and tears are a part of the process. “ Good grief Charlie Brown.” Or maybe it is just an expression of exasperation and has nothing to do with grief at all-after all it is just a comic strip. I prefer to think of it as therapeutic.

Jon Way

More Connections

 

Chris and Robin

Today’s post is by Robin Balin, a Stow community friend, fellow book group and dinner group member as well as a former co­worker with Chris at Whole Foods.

I’ve been waiting for the right moment, with the right words to capture my thoughts and memories about Chris. Those who have written in this space, including Chris herself, have done so with such candor, love and eloquence. How could I possibly have anything new to say about Chris’ character or what her friendship meant to me? Chris is sorely missed from our book group, though her spirit continues to reside with us. At our last gathering someone mentioned that they still expect to see her little blue car in the driveway when they arrive. Chris was punctual (sometimes early‐‐she once helped me vacuum when she arrived 30 minutes ahead of schedule at my house) and was always eager to discuss the monthly book selection. When our discussions strayed from the book’s subject matter, she kept us on track.

One way I stay connected to Chris is by following her sister Grace’s blog. I don’t know Grace personally, but like Chris, her writing is honest and enjoyable. Reading Grace’s recent post about travelling in India this month and visiting the Taj Mahal made me realize we are all connected.

Our January book selection was “Beneath The Marble Sky” by John Shors. The book is a somewhat fictionalized account of the building of the Taj Mahal, interwoven with family drama involving the Emperor of Hindustan, Shah Jahan, the man who funded and commissioned the building to honor his beloved wife. Chris would have loved the book and I can only imagine the discussions the two sisters would have had about the Taj Mahal and India. One of my most treasured family keepsakes is a Western Union telegram my late father sent to my late mother in June 1964. He was on an extended business trip in India. The telegram reads “Happy Birthday from the Taj Mahal. A majestic jewel.”

Chris, you were a majestic jewel. I miss your thoughtful discussions and insight, your colorful clothing, your excellent cooking, and most of all your friendship

A Letter From A Forever Friend

 

Forever Friends celebrating together at 50: Lisa, Jackie, Debbie, Chris and Carol Chalker (Chalks)

 

Hey Chris – Chalks here,

I have been learning so much about you over the past months since you left your space.  As one of your Colby friends –  known as the Dana Girls, the Forever Friends – I have been reading all of the contributions being made from family and friends.  I need to apologize first, before I say anything more, for not having spent more time with you over the years getting to know you outside of our special cluster. I am left feeling sad for all of the experiences you had that I was not fully present for when we shared our lives together.  Somehow I figured we knew everything about each other and no one had a more special part.  It was such a naive and selfish perspective that was shattered when the space you left was fully exposed.  What I want to say to you, Chris, is how wowed I am by you and how really really honored I am to have shared the growing up years together that we did at Colby, as well as the 42 years of get togethers that followed.

I am so grateful for the wonderful friends and family members of yours who have taught me so much more about you.  My favorite of all things that I learned about you is your creative writing talent that Rose is sharing with the blog.  I can’t wait until the next installment of the beach girls and am so impressed with your writing ability and the insight and compassion your stories reflected.  Of course that is a reflection of who you are but heck, I never knew you could write so well!!!

I love hearing about you as a friend to the people in your various communities; you are the same person with each special group of people you have tamed.  I remember those boots of yours and the story of your walks with your friend Lisa just brings another part of you to me that I did not know but now I do.  The same happened at your service when your law school friend talked about your study group.  And again, that special Chris that we Forever Friends know was present in every story.

I miss you around the bridge table, I miss you on our walks where the 5 of us would seamlessly switch off and share news and discuss all levels of life events we needed to catch up with.  I miss you when we gather as 4 instead of 5; we all miss you.  We feel so sad for Jon and Matt and Dave and Jesse and at the same time know that they carry you with them and want to stay connected to them too.  We love your blog for that connection.  We love having gotten to know your sisters; in your relationship with them, you also are one of a unique group.

I hope that more people write and this continues; it is life affirming.

Chris, one last thing today I want to say.  Your Forever Friends plan to make a trip up to Colby this year (yes, sometime when we can all figure a common time…you understand how challenging that is:).  Lisa had the idea that a fitting way for us to honor your role in our lives would be to dedicate a book to you in the Colby Alumni Library.  We all decided that it would be just right and we plan to include a copy of your essay on the spaces we leave behind as it reflects your wisdom and deserves a place in the library of an institution where we came to experience your soul. Of course, we all have to decide on a book…stay tuned for that.

You sure did a lot in your 64 years here; you set an example of how to live.  Thank you for continuing to provide lessons through the people you have touched.

xo
Chalks

Boots

Dear Chris,

     Jon gave me your UGG boots, the cute ones with the fur around the ankles. I hope that is okay. I stopped by for a visit a few weeks after your memorial and he was organizing shoes; lots of shoes, especially sneakers!  He said you always needed to be very comfortable with all the walking you did together. I wonder what happened to the blue crocs I always made fun of? When he asked if I would like the boots, I was very touched. They are extremely warm and cozy. I get many compliments wearing them and always give you credit for good taste and function. They are perfect now for my ankle surgery recovery, supportive and slip proof. Today it is snowing and I plan to walk around the block for some fresh air.

      Remember all our walks together? We used to go so fast no one else could keep up! We had such wonderful conversations; trying to solve all the world’s “big” problems, laughing and crying about our “little” family issues. Both were equally interesting and important.  Walking is only one of many activities we shared. I miss our time together but will always have the memories.

                                    Love, Lisa (Moore)

Note from blog curator:  If you’d like to be a guest blogger, write a letter to Chris, share a memory, reflect on Chris or her influence on your life, please be in touch.  You can reach me at chrisguestblogger@gmail.com.  I hope to hear from you.

Connections

Today’s guest blog post comes from Melissa Burton, mother of Kathy who is Jesse’s partner.  Such a beautiful story of connection, which Chris believed in so fully.

From: “Melissa M. F. Burton”
Date: January 15, 2016 at 9:39:38 AM EST
Subject: A Story from one weaver to another

Hi Barbara,

My name is Melissa Burton. I am a member of the New Hampshire Weavers Guild, although I would describe myself as a dream weaver and keeper of a lot of looms and fiber…not anywhere the artist that I see in your work. I hope you don’t mind me sending this story to you but hope that the fact I wear your scarf so very often will warm your heart.

The photo below is of Chris M Way. She is the mother of my daughter’s significant other Jesse. Over the 7 years they have dated we got to know his family just enough to really enjoy our triple dates and visits. Chris was a warm, wonderful woman with a passionate spirit and the rare gift of listening to people. Sadly, Chris passed away this past September after a 20 year battle with breast cancer. When the family was going through her things my daughter Kathy saw your scarf, thought it was hand-woven and knew I would love the colors and texture.  I have worn this scarf for part of everyday since then. The grief I feel for the loss of a new friend pales beside the sorrow the Way family is experiencing, but your scarf brings me comfort. Kathy didn’t have any story behind the scarf…Chris’s sisters didn’t know the origin. Then, in December we invited Chris’s husband and sons to our home.  Jon arrived wearing one of your scarfs, in more muted but rich dark greens, blues…but still that tiny silver thread. Jon shared that he had bought both scarfs in Acton as gifts for Chris and loves wearing it.
Chris loved loved, loved color, especially blue and blue-purples. The shirt she is wearing in the photo was a favorite and we often laughed about our kids wanting us to tone down our color choices.
Your weaving has come in a wide wandering circle to me but brings much comfort, in its color ways, sparkle, softness and maybe most in its real interwoven connection and strength of love and memory.

Thank you and wishing you Peace,

Melissa
PS I wore it to NHWG and lots of folks knew your work and name….ah connections.

From: Barbara Willis
Date: January 16, 2016 at 11:25:43 AM EST
Subject: Re: A story of weaving a connection from one weaver to another

Oh my Melissa, I have cold chills and tears in my eyes as I read this.  What a beautiful woman Chris was.  And such a battle she fought.  I am so sorry to hear of her death.  What a terrible loss to her family and all of you.  I send you warm and healing thoughts.

I think that Jon probably bought my scarves at Handworks Gallery on 2A in Acton.  Glenn Johnson, the owner, is a great supporter of local artists, and has a beautiful store.

I name my scarves, depending on the inspiration.  The picture of the scarf you sent, I think, is “Ode to Randy”.  I spent 2 weeks at Haystack Mt. School of Crafts in Maine in the late 90’s, in a class taught by Randall Darwall.  Randy is a wonderful weaver (you probably know of him and his work) and has been a huge inspiration to me since moving to Mass. from Calif. many years ago.  Those are many of the colors he wears.  Over the years I have given family and friends scarves when they are going through difficult times, and I hope that they bring comfort to them – that they get a hug when they put them on.  It is so moving and affirming to me to read of your wearing Chris’ scarf, and its ‘interwoven connection and strength of love and memory’.  Beautiful.

I believe that one of our earliest sensations was being wrapped in something soft, warm and comforting, and I hope I bring that to my work.  That is what I try to do with my weaving.

Thank you, Melissa, for your beautiful letter.  I will treasure it.

Barbara

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

A Walk With Chris

Today’s guest post is written by Jon’s sister Linda Cantrell, pictured above with Chris on a 2009 trip to California.

It was a sunny summer day the first time I met Chris. Jon had invited her to North Hero with some of his fellow medical students to enjoy some time at the Lake. I liked her immediately and thought she was perfect for my brother. Chris was full of life and enthusiasm and seemed a bit of a free spirit. She had charisma! My father said she looked like Ingrid Bergman, his favorite actress. Since we lived in different parts of the country, we didn’t see each other often, but I always looked forward to our visits.

Reading Chris’s essays and all the wonderful things her friends have written has given me more insight. They have also reflected the extraordinary person I knew as my sister-in-law.

My favorite memories of Chris were the walks we took together. When our kids were young there were walks at Walden Pond in the Fall. There were snowy trails near Apple Blossom Lane, the beautiful Mohonk retreat, the neighborhoods of San Francisco, and the back roads of Vermont. We always had lots to talk about. She was easy to be with and also liked to walk fast. Chris was always in shape, even when her body was failing. It was me who had to struggle to keep up. We talked about anything and everything. It was so enjoyable hearing her thoughts and I developed respect and admiration for her, especially for her love of learning. When I asked for a book suggestion, I knew it would be great.

My most memorable walks with Chris were on Station Road in North Hero, a walk to the backside of the Island. She described it as “the essence of Vermont”. It is a country road lined with daisies and queen anne’s lace in the summer and wild asters in the fall. We pass barns in need of repair, rusted tractors, and hay fields. Seagulls squawking above and when the wind is right, the smell of cows fills the air. At last we turn the corner and there is the breathtaking view of Lake Champlain with the Adirondacks in the background.

We talk about our children, our lives and Chris’s concern for Jon being alone. She discusses her cancer and the side effects of the treatments. When she first tells me of the seriousness, I cannot respond. I am overwhelmed with emotion. I want to go back to hearing about classes and writing projects. I cannot bear the thought that life could change and she wouldn’t always be there. Chris is the strong one, the role model for my daughter, the one who can teach my grandchildren to sail. She can hold her own in a political debate and win at all the board games. She knows how to avoid family friction and enjoy the best of times. She has so much to look forward to. How could life be so unfair?

My last walk with Chris was a lovely Fall afternoon. Jon and my husband Jim were with us as we set out on Station Road. The fall asters were in bloom and the air had a cool clear crispness, so typical of Vermont. Chris was having balance problems and we had no idea we would be completing about six miles. That day we talked about living in the moment, meditation and Qi Gong. She had come to terms with her illness. It was a great afternoon and a beautiful way to remember my last walk with Chris.

Last summer when Chris was so sick, I took that same walk often. Chris was always with me. My mind was constantly reflecting on all we talked about. I wanted to learn more about Qi Gong, meditation, and learning to live in the moment. I was in awe that she was able to live out the end of her life with such grace and dignity. My regret was that I was unable to tell Chris how much respect and love I felt for her, what an awesome mother she was, and how lucky I was to have her as a sister-in-law. She still enriches my life by just having known her.

Guest Post for Christine Way by Leslie van Berkum, Deerfield NH

 

Guest blogger Leslie (left front) with hiking friends Deb, Christy, Anne, Grace and Cynthia — a group of friends reminiscent of the many groups of friends Chris had.

January 10, 2016

I didn’t know Chris Way. I wish like hell that I had known her. We came close. She graduated from Colby College in June of 1973 and I started there in September 1973. It seems like we had a lot in common besides our college: soccer and sports in general, Qi Gong, coaching Odyssey of the Mind, our views on religion (from what I could tell), volunteering, even a train track incident at Colby mentioned by her friend Debbie. I know that spot and have a similar train story.

I am a friend of her sister Grace and I saw Chris’s blog on a Facebook post Grace shared. I started following the blog and although I commented a couple of times, mostly I just read about the courageous journey Chris made of a rotten deal and was inspired.

Grace mentioned that she was accepting guest blogs many weeks ago, but I’ve read the other posts that many of you have written and I wondered what I could add. Each is so powerful and all of you knew her….really knew her. I was just a blog fan, a friend of her sister. Finally I went back and re-read Chris’s posts. The ups and downs, the lack of self-pity, the optimism that seemed impossible….yet was there and genuine. Somehow it felt that Chris would welcome a guest blog from anyone who cared to write: I almost felt that she was talking to me. It’s a rare gift to be able to communicate on so many levels and even after death. I do believe she was a very special person and as so many of you have said; she is still helping so many of us to be better people.

“The Spaces We Leave Behind” is a beautiful reflection on the passage of time and our ties to each other and the world around us. She said that if a book is moved, the impact it had on the reader remains. Even though Chris died, the abundance of love and friendships, the lack of judgment, the rare gift of truly listening, lives on…. in her husband, her sons, her extended family and her friends. She writes that “connection comes from things other than love; it also comes from shared history and events.” I wondered if that was why I was thrilled to find several things in common with this remarkable woman. I was looking for that connection. The space in my life left by Chris’s passing is not one of missing her, but one of wishing that we could walk down a beach together and just talk.

I will continue to read her essays, but I also would like to find the bench in her honor, located in her hometown of Scituate Massachusetts and sit there for a while. Maybe I can just pretend that we are talking together.

Gosh, you all must miss her so!