After I lost my own mother, I took to borrowing other peoples’. I fell in love with Hermia Tucker, Tracy Buck’s mom, the first time I met her. Soul connection.
In July of 2014, I joined Hermia and Tracy at Hermia’s seaside cottage where the two of them introduced me to Maine and Hermia’s childhood.
At the time, Hermia’s body was tiny and frail, recovering from a fall; however, there was nothing tiny or frail about her spirit, her will to heal her body, her personality, her intelligence, or her wit. We bonded over books and teaching and yoga and pickled beets and Chardonnay and feminism and spirituality and Angels. She kicked my ass in scrabble. She patiently showed me how she picked crab. Fascinated, I listened as Hermia and her sister told stories, sentences thick with Maine accents, the room thick with laughter. I was intrigued by a woman her age who was such an open-minded, progressive thinker, drawn to her honesty and vulnerability and impressed by her spunk.
July 2, 2017, Hermia transitioned out of this lifetime and onto her next assignment. BF and I ate dinner on the patio that night. My heart was heavy. I talked about the night I had brought Hermia to dinner on our patio, because it is one of my favorite places on Earth and I wanted to share it with her. We had giggled as I secured her in the passenger seat of my convertible and loaded her walker in the trunk. I snapped a photo and she stuck her tongue out at me.
BF commented, “Makes you wonder what it’s all about. Doesn’t it?”
I pondered. It’s times like this that remind me to live. Never just exist. Never go mindlessly from one task to the other, forsaking the joy of the moment. Never be too restrictive. Never ignore an opportunity to befriend. And to always allow reason with things like gluten and dairy and Chardonnay. Teary, I answered, “I can tell you this much: I’m not going the rest of my life without sourdough toast, sharp cheddar, or a second glass of wine.” Somehow, I believe my friend would approve.
Cheers to Hermia! To know her was to love her.