Taking It All In

Margie pretended to me on the phone that she was fine and able to meet for coffee at our usual spot, but I worried about her getting out in the heat of August (85F/29.4C). I insisted she stay at home and let me come to her. I had decided to give her the book I’ve made, and I wanted the quiet of her home for the presentation.

When I got to her, she was fragile, dizzy, not fully dressed, and grateful not to venture out today. 

She was overwhelmed with gratitude for the book. She put on her reading glasses and began taking it in. She saw that I got some things wrong—her daughter’s friend is Carrie, not Callie. “Some of these are your words, aren’t they?”

I said I always try not to intrude, but I write each piece from memory, and maybe I have to tie a few sentence fragments together here and there. 

“But you get the truth, really,” she insisted. “Sometimes you write down what I meant to say, not exactly what I did say. You spruce it up a little, but you always get the essence of it. Will you read it to me, and let me follow along?”

As I read, she said over and over, “That’s so me!” “You got it!” “I don’t remember saying that, but it’s exactly what I would say.” “Yes, yes, yes, I recognize those thoughts.” “How do you remember me so well?” "You're a photographer, but what you see is more than what meets the eye or the camera."

We got as far as page 18 (of 146) and I saw that she was fading. I asked, “Do you need a nap, Margie?” and she laughed and laughed. “I always could use a nap. It’s my favorite pastime.”

We spent some time, after we put the book down, thanking each other. She thinks I’m a gift. I think she’s a gift. She says my life has always been about service and gratitude. I say her life has always been service and gratitude. We both cried a little and laughed more than we cried. I left her like this, reclining on her couch, cradling the book peacefully, falling asleep.