The day before leaving town for a few days, “Eileen” and I met for a cup of coffee. I called her once while I was out of town. She was her exuberant self both times.
Late on the afternoon I came home, after the car was emptied and everything was mostly put in its place, I took a break to read the newspaper.
A very brief notification in the obituaries caused an instantaneous emptying of my tear ducts. The complete notice started with Eileen’s name, from Urbana, date of death and the name of the mortuary. No age, no survivors, in fact, no personal information other than the name.
Woodrow Wilson was President of the United States when Eileen was born. But I wasn’t ready to find a new coffee companion yet.
My first call was to her daughter. I got her answering machine. O.K., she’d be involved with her brother and sister. Maybe they’re at their mom’s. By the time I called Eileen’s phone, I was bawling.
Eileen answered and seemed elated that I was home. She mistook my lamenting for laughter.
“I’m not laughing. I’m crying.”
I explained why I was sobbing. She assured me she was fine. We both laughed.
I acknowledged, “Now you know how I’ll react.”
Later, I learned that other friends of Eileen made the same mistake I had.
I thought not seeing my name in the obituaries made a good day. The new and revised edition of that thought means not seeing my friend’s names in the obits makes the day stupendous.
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