I’m reading a memorial to Lindsey Pyle in the Shady Hill Quarterly, and it has me thinking about those long-ago years (mine, of course, at a different school). There is a group of six girls from those years who loom large in my memory. Four of us have lost our mothers – certainly an unusually large number. One of those girls just had a baby girl of her own (Madeline), last week, and another two had babies in the past few months (Hazel and Jack). As the generations unfurl before us, and as I hear news of the passing of parents (I attended Lauren’s mother’s memorial service last year), I am struck by how my memories of those friends are so much, vividly, about their families. The individual friendships from those years are firmly rooted in the family ecosystems – we were so much with each others’ mothers, fathers, siblings. I can recall as if it were yesterday moments spent with each of those six mothers – and it startles me to think that I’m nearing the age some of them probably were when I met them. Though I’m only in close touch with one of those girls, and in passing contact with three other of them, they will always be such an important part of the fabric of my childhood memories. This passage from Lindsey’s memorial reminded me of these particular friendships and their unique characteristics:

It’s so easy to forget the nearly invisible web that we discovered forming around us as children: the one that shakes when someone is born, shakes again when someone’s heart breaks, when someone moves away, or dies. Now I find myself wondering whether, when someone as bright as Lindsey disappears, there isn’t a little dent, almost imperceptible, in the universe. And if you’re really quiet, you feel it, thought at the time you may not recognize it for what it is.

(credit to Kerry Tribe for the beautifully written tribute)