Last night I attended a celebration in memory of a former colleague. I was not at her funeral in May, nor did I visit her frequently during her final illness. Nonetheless, I claim the right to call Sherie a friend.
As we toasted this remarkable woman in her back garden, an old friend, Steve, telling part of her history that he had learned only recently, filled in blanks in my knowledge of her family's past.
She was born in Vienna. Before her father made his way there and met her mother, he had lost his family to the Nazi death camps. Sherie's family left Europe to join a surviving uncle here.
No doubt it was in part the dark shadow cast by history on Sherie's family that made her who she was. People felt they could tell her anything. Looking into her dark compassionate eyes, as one friend said, "made you feel you were the only person in the world, that she understood you completely." A rare gift indeed.
A lover of fine food and wine, Sherie requested that this party be held after her death. "And you know how bossy she could be," said her sister. She wanted not a memorial, but a celebration of friends, with good food, good wine, and repartee.
Sherie joked (and smoked) till the last. Only two days before her death, she was taken outside for some fresh air. Frail but still courageous in the garden, she remarked, "Isn't life beautiful?"
"What Sherie has given to us," said Cathy, "is each other. For tonight we are here together to celebrate and to share our loss." For me, as for many, it was a privilege to know her.
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