On a normal Friday in the summer, I would make plans to spend the afternoon with Big Haggis (my hubby) and I would spend the morning prepping meals for the weekend so we could relax as much as possible and feast as much as possible with minimal of effort. Fresh chopped veg for snacking, skewers, and salads, perhaps a tuna salad or a guacamole that can be refrigerated and dipped into when needed. I love to have frozen fruit in the fridge for easy smoothies or boozy shakes, and I make sure that the protein is thawed, and sometimes even seasoned, ready for the grill, and (later in the summer) there is a fresh batch of my super-secret ShropHQ “summer mix”- that special summer batter into which I dredge green tomatoes, crab cakes, and/or okra to fry up as a summer treat to be served with fresh slaw (heavy on the sesame seeds), pico de gallo, a caprese plate, or a ceviche.

Hungry yet?

In short, this time of the year, Fridays usually see me slipping into the adult patterns of a summer weekend spent Relaxing and Recharging and Reclaiming.

This particular Friday though, I am hanging out in the Admirals Lounge of the Charlotte airport on a day pass; I had to purchase one with points because I’ve not had a 3+ hour domestic layover in 12 years. Evidently, my international life of the last 10 years only gets me access when traveling internationally. Who knew. Luckily, they did not ask me to wear a “Visitor” sticker (like they did in the Memory Unit where my G’mom Qtip used to live) or a ”Hello My Name is” name tag or any other Scarlet Letter identifier that alerts the other inhabitants of the lounge that I’m an interloper. 

Really, this laptop and the vodka cranberry cocktail are all I need to tell other travelers in the lounge that I “belong”. While 75% of persons in here are looking at a phone, only about half of those are actively chatting, with “I received your email” and “the policy states that” and “when I land I can send you those documents” . These people  make me question my life choices, as I am clearly not as successful or important as they are.

The other half of people on phones are playing games, watching tv shows, or talking a bunch of nonsense a little too loudly. Like the lady two rows behind me the connecting flight here; the poor bloke beside her as well as the front half of the plane all now know how best to navigate the North Carolina Zoo, including where to park and how to plan your day so you don’t have to walk uphill so much. She also prayed for the plane and the pilots. So there’s that.  

But back to my summer Friday reveries… Actually, no. 

My mind is in airport-lounge mode, shifting  to focus from journey to destination. Nancy.

For me, Nancy, as for many reading this post, is a bit of both. Journey and destination.

I am smiling, thinking of the Friday summers of my youth – circa 5^th through 8^th grades especially. The summers when Nancy and I would spend endless hours riding our bikes before the heat took us over. Many afternoons, I would head to the pool (I was a Lawndale Swim and Tennis pool rat)  and she would head inside for her soap operas, the updates of which she would give me later that night on the phone after dinner. I would hear of the Friday cliffhanger episodes of the Laura and Luke saga of General Hospital and other shows that I didn’t watch (I was strictly CBS) and then we’d make plans to go to the movies, or sleep-overs, and other summer shenanigans.

Other than nefarious soap opera plot lines, we worried about little more than the air pressure in our bike tires and the wrath of our mothers if we were home late to supper. We sang ridiculous songs – some from the radio and some we made up. We did creative projects, wrote in journals, and shared secrets. We were safe. We were grounded. When in doubt, we had each other. We watched for on-coming traffic; we waited when one of us sped down a hill first and the other needed to catch up. We ate cheese buns and pickles, watermelon slices and turkey sandwiches, P-B-and-Js and chips. And oh my. Jamocha Almond Fudge ice cream.

Years later, the summer infertility treatments were wreaking havoc on my life, Nancy was there. With patience, she listened and asked if a pint of Baskin Robbins would help. It did.

The day she took a test and learned she was pregnant with Emma, I was there. We were on our way to a concert in LA and I split the duties instantly: “I’ll drink, you drive!” At that show, we danced and sang to the same songs (Jack Wagner!) that we did in middle school. And it was glorious, the warmth of new beginnings overlapping old familiars.

There are so many things we don’t know. What will happen next. On whose timetable we’re all living. Organized faith systems aside, what I do know is that I feel like Nancy is speeding down a hill, her wavy brown locks flying beautifully behind her as she maneuvers her bike in easy lazy curves.

And I feel myself, astride a sturdy 5-speed, following a distance behind, hollering for her to wait up for me. She is smiling, laughing even; she teases me.

Only this time, I feel that she won’t stop.

She will glide around the corner, green trees and summer blooms closing behind her.

There will be no squeaking of brakes, no skidding up next to the curb, no quick lock of the kickstand, no squinting into the sun, shielding her eyes to see how far behind I am.

I feel that where Nancy is riding now, I cannot go just yet, and I am sad about that.

But I know just as I am here now to soak her up and breathe her in, in the future, I’ll catch up.

I don’t have faith about much in this life, but I live every day with the burning love of a true friend, who existed – and does still – in spaces I hold dear. Spaces we might get to visit again – where we can ride bikes in a sunny summer afterlife filled with blooming crepe myrtles, barking dogs, and Baskin Robbins.

DocShrop NOTE:
I wrote this originally on Nancy’s Caring Bridge blog/site in June. I got to spend 6 days that last visit in California with her and her beautiful family. She died 4 weeks later.