I experienced a tingly moment of meaning today. For some reason, a thought came to me, unbidden, as I drove this morning: “I should really call Anna.”
Anna is the mother of my childhood friend, Katherine. Katherine and I were very close friends – we lived in the same neighborhood (they actually had block parties there – I’ve never experienced another place like it) in Orlando, and went to Lakemont Elementary together, until the end of fifth grade. Then, my parents separated and we moved to Seminole County, so I changed schools right before the all-important sixth grade (back then, elementary in Orange County was K-6). It was a very difficult move for me, but I pledged to maintain my friendships, especially my friendship with Katherine.
Katherine died not long afterwards. She died in her sleep, and I still don’t know exactly why, or of what. All of my memories of the event are blurred and steeped with the mysticism of an 11-year-old trying to understand and deal with her first confrontation with death. All of us, friends and family, were trying to explain the unexplainable; dull the shock and pain. I have random, chopped pieces of significant memory. She had studied the symbolism of butterflies drawn by children in concentration camps during the Holocaust, and she’d apparently been drawing butterflies a lot. I missed the funeral service because we were running late and my mom couldn’t find the church.
At any rate, I still think of Katherine often, and the gentle, loving spirit I remember her having. It inspired me then, and still does. In fact, I named my daughter Emma Katherine after her. And that brings me back to Anna.
I’ve been meaning to call Anna to tell her about Emma Katherine for the last two years, but have never done it. But, today, the impulse to call her was strong. Problem was, I didn’t have any contact information for her. I ran into her a few years ago at the downtown Orlando Orthodox Church, but haven’t heard of her since then. OK, not a problem, there’s this great invention called The Internet, right? So, I finally tracked down her son, Alex (Katherine’s little brother) who happens to be a local realtor (and, incidentally, no longer little), and call the work number listed for him.
He answers. I stammer. “Uh, this is Jenny Spiliotis. Wadley. I lived in your neighborhood growing up. I was….” He saves me from further communication embarrassment by saying “I remember you Jenny.” Whew. I continue, “Well, I was actually trying to get in touch with your mom.” “Oh. She’s right here, would you like to talk to her?”
Wow. Just like that. Okay.
And so, I had a lovely conversation with Anna, during which I found out that she and Alex have just returned from her mother’s funeral, and that they are, right at this minute, showing a house in our old neighborhood. How funny that I should call just as they’re in that house, in that neighborhood, and together.
Funny.
She’s touched that I honored Katherine by giving my daughter her name. She tells me lots of little things she remembers about me (“I remember you eating M&Ms for breakfast. You used to float in the pool all by yourself, off in dreamland.”) It was so amazing, and wonderful to have these little glimpses into the me of the past, the me as a child. It is the little bits of myself, and my history, that I have no conscience memory of… but that feels familiar, feels like me. And that me was such good friends with the beautiful, kind and gentle Katherine. It feels good to remember, and be grateful.