A Friend

A small envelope is propped against the monitor. A band of red encloses a space sufficient to hold my name and address written in beautiful copperplate writing .Thick and thin upright lines could only be enscribed with pen and ink.

The letters are exactly how I remember being taught though mine were never so even or precise or so beautifully shaped. The card arrived two weeks before Christmas with a note updating me on their lives.

Ethel had hip-surgery in the summer. A week after she left hospital, she was back in with pneumonia but has been well since. Johnny had to cook. It was fine as long as all he had to do was put things in and out of the microwave.

They moved from where they lived all of their lives together in the Village of Symington where Ethel was active and involved . Troon would be more convenient. The car had to go when Johnny had quadruple heart surgery. They needed to be handy for shops and buses.

Ethel was looking forward to coming back to Canada to see Frank and Lorna's new house . She hoped to see me again soon and wished my family well.

The handwriting tells so much about her. An incredibly tidy little woman; fastidious and meticulous. Her eyes dance and flash with wit and curiosity and the laughter is never far from her lips.

On the day of our family gathering, there was a phone call from Scotland. Ethel was back in hospital in a breathing machine. By the time Lorna arrived there, the news was better. She had improved, was out of the machine but still in hospital.

My friend was eighty-eight years old. I don't believe I ever told her how much I admired her handwriting. The Christmas card will be the last .

Ethel died two days after Christmas.

Just slipped away quietly and tidily in her sleep.