Before Tara passed away, I went to see her. I sat with her along with her husband and in-laws. She had pretty much lost the ability to speak, so we sat around and I just held her hand. I was uncomfortable in the awkward silence, so I pulled out my phone and started showing her pictures. “Look Tara, here we are hanging out in your kitchen. Here we are on our trip to Connecticut when the kids were little. Here’s another picture in your kitchen. This was on your birthday when we went to the chocolate making workshop. And here’s another one in your kitchen….” I can’t even count how many hundreds of hours I spent in that kitchen. The chairs in her kitchen were worn with permanent butt indents.
The kitchen was Tara’s happy place. You could pop in unexpected and she would welcome you in, throw together an eggplant parmigiana, and then wrap it up so your husband and kids had dinner. When we decided to meet for breakfast, she often insisted we come over and she made omelets to order and Nutella French toast. She put out a smorgasbord every time.
When Tara wasn’t baking cookies for the PTA, she was making chocolates for birthday goody bags. Or she was preparing a dozen dishes for one of her barbecues, block parties or holidays. She didn’t know what the word catering meant, except for when she was getting paid to cater someone else’s event. When she became sick, she continued cooking, but now she was cooking for the nurses at the cancer center. She was supposed to be slowing down, but her slowing down was the average person’s speeding up.
Tara was always a caretaker. In her last few weeks, she invited me into her bedroom to show me how her husband had moved the furniture around and put a chair next to the bed for visitors. She walked over to a table in the corner where there was a basket of little heart trinkets. She handed me one with my name on it. Only Tara would give out parting gifts to visitors while she was dying. Only Tara would put out a tray of goodies when the hospice nurse visited. That was just who she was.
I was talking with a friend about her yesterday, and I was trying to find the words to describe her. My friend said that she had a spicy personality, and it made me giggle, because of the cooking metaphor. She was spicy. She was loud and full of energy. She would tell stories in a way that had you laughing so hard that it hurt and you were gasping for air. She was confident and funny and didn’t take shit from anyone. And yet she was the most gentle mother and would move mountains for her kids.
Last year, while she was still well, we went out shopping together. She saw me admiring a rainbow hamsa. I walked away from it and continued to browse. A few minutes later, she handed me a shopping bag with the hamsa in it. She said, “I saw you looking at it so I bought it for you. After I am gone, you can look at it and think of me.” Even in her condition, she was thinking of others. We stood in the store hugging and crying, and with every reason to be angry at the world, she was there comforting me. I hung the hamsa on my mirror, so every morning I can look at it and smile.
That was Mother’s Day weekend last year, and we thought it was our last hurrah, as we spent the weekend together, along with Beth and Michelle. We didn’t dream that she’d make it another year, but I am convinced that her positive attitude and unwavering faith is what kept her going. When she had every reason to question God, she found peace.
A few weeks ago, while Tara was still able to, she handed me a letter that she wrote. It sits on my desk, still sealed. I have yet to read it. I’m not sure I can handle it and if I do read it, that means that I really have to say goodbye.
My last interaction with Tara was right before she passed away. She could barely speak, so I just crawled into bed with her and held her hand. There was nothing to say, no words unsaid. So we just laid together and I rubbed her hand and she snoozed on and off. I don’t know how, but she opened her eyes and mustered up the strength to utter one sentence, clear as day. I’ve decided to keep her words between her and I. Finally I got up, kissed her on the forehead and told her that I loved her. I left the room and met her husband in the hall and we just hugged for what felt like forever.
My friend was truly like no one else. She was a light in the darkness, and the world was a better place because she was in it.
