Why I Don’t Make Desserts, And Other Lessons Learned

The gifts of my wise, wise friend

My great friend Emily died last week. From the time I got the email that she was in the hospital, it was just a few days. Her liver wasn’t working right, her daughter said, and her family had moved her to hospice care. We were told she would probably not live through the weekend.

I had seen her just two weeks before. We had one of our many wonderful visits; we sat and talked about our families, about perfection not being the goal, about how our husbands have faults, but so do we, and we appreciate the good in each other. It was Emily’s birthday the day before, and I gave her a present, a super-soft pale yellow throw. She said she loved it, and had never touched such a cozy blanket. She rubbed it against her cheek. I was so happy she liked it so much. Emily invited me to stay for lunch, which her husband was soon going to make, and I thanked her and said I couldn’t this time. Said I’d love to next time I came.

Emily was ninety-two, forty-two years my senior, and had been my harp teacher since I was eleven. I left her studio when I graduated from high school and went off to college. I studied harp there with another fine teacher. I went on later to my first job in the city, and then my second and third. I got married, with Emily and her husband there to celebrate with us, went to graduate school and had four babies. I immersed myself in motherhood, and only sporadically found time for my harp. Each year, I sent Emily our holiday photo card, sharing pictures of our growing family. As my brood expanded, I brought our children to meet Emily, this person who was so special to me. And she cared about them, as she loved me. She knew what I was trying to keep up with. She too had three girls and one boy. Yes, she encouraged me to try to find time to practice, but she also really knew how much was in my life. She asked me to just do my best. That’s all she ever asked of me.

Over the past twenty years, we’ve also been pen pals, something not too common these days, at least for the younger generations. Actual letters, written on paper with pens, or sometimes pencils, or both. We’d treat each other to pretty stationery, sometimes homemade, sometimes not. If Emily used looseleaf, she’d apologize for not using something more special. She shared tidbits she had learned over the years about managing time as a working mother, about prioritizing. “Don’t make homemade desserts. It takes time, and they’re usually fattening!,” she’d say with a chuckle. So true. And, “when you’re folding laundry, call a friend to talk on the phone while you fold.” Good ideas like that. Emily told me how she’d put her kids to bed at night, and then practice her harp. She’d start with lullabies, to get them to sleep, she told me. That didn’t work so well for my kids, who called downstairs frequently to tell me I was keeping them awake and it was bed time, but I loved thinking of Emily playing while her little ones drifted off! And I loved that she was offering me helpful tips, one mom to another. Now that I was a “grown up lady,” as she joked, we could talk about anything, and even let a swear rip here or there! How our relationship had evolved was so beautiful to me.

Everyone loved Emily. Really. Her many students, music colleagues, family, friends. Everyone who knew her saw the talented, loving, wise and funny person she was. When she greeted you, you knew she cared, and you got her full attention. No multi-tasking. At her shiva, friends and family laughed and cried, sharing how Emily enriched their lives. She’d drive a neighbor who needed a lift, she’d give intimate harp recitals for the staff when on family vacations.

The thing is, she was still so amazingly vibrant at ninety-two, that in spite of her need for a cane in the past few years, and her increasing frailty, somehow I didn’t think we’d lose her anytime soon. A skier well into her mid-eighties, continuing to teach harp students for just as long, a lover of jewelry from the American Southwest, of art, her garden, the water, her family, old Broadway show tunes, of lots of things, she had convinced me, at least, that she wasn’t going anywhere. I thought I’d see her again next month, to have another lesson and another great time together.

But Emily’s body had reached its limit, shocking as that was to us. Now, I’ll be thinking of her while I sit at my harp, while driving my kids somewhere, and definitely when I fold laundry. I’ll hear her voice when I look at a dessert recipe, telling me to buy something instead, even if it’s not as good, because it won’t take so much time.

I’ve been thinking about why I loved her so much. There are lots of reasons, of course, but I guess it’s, in large part, because she loved me without condition, without an agenda or judgment. She just loved me. Without being invested in my choices as a girl finding my path.

I’ll miss sitting next to her in my lessons. I’ll miss her letters, addressing me as “Ms.” and not “Mrs.”, because she was the most hip, liberated nonagenarian I’ve ever known. I’ll miss her big hearty laugh. her strong capable hands. Her bold, long stride, full of purpose and joy. I’ll love my kids better, having felt her love for me. I’ll love my husband with more patience and gratitude, remembering how much she loved her husband of seventy-one years, always knocking on nearby wood and saying how lucky she was. I’ll love music so much that sometimes it’ll hurt, and I’ll shed tears of loss, love and thankfulness.