Waking Kristina

Waking Kristina

 

The Irish have a tradition of honoring their departed with drink, raucous merriment, and fellowship with the clan.  Though they mourn as deeply as anyone, they also make sure to utilize that time of grieving to weave tribute and celebration of the life and soul departed into the mix of their tears and lament. Attending Kristina’s memorial service, I thought it nice, the minister said the appropriate words, but missing for me, was the energy, exuberance, and zest for the life lived by my friend.  Though she was Italian, not Irish, she was inhabited by at least some part of an Irish soul to my reckoning.  Spontaneity, winging it with no plan other than to have fun…and lots and lots of laughter, were the manifestations of all the times I shared with her, the credo that we lived whenever we got together.  So I wanted to offer my Irish tribute, wake my Kristina proper, and see her off to the next realm with a twinkle in her eye, and a lust for adventure in her spirit. 

 

            She wanted to see a moose.  Said that in all her years in New Hampshire, she’d not yet seen a moose.  I asked her how this could be so; I live in coastal southern Maine and see moose maybe once or twice or year, while she lived closer to moose country in the foothills of wood and lake NH.  But she’d never seen one, so we loaded up her kids, the dog, some picnic food, and drove up to North Nowhere New Hampshire to find Kristina a moose. 

 

            It’s those one day, mini-road trips that will most linger in my heart and memories of Kris.  She loved gathering Lexi, Christopher, and Ean, (and on this day, her beloved Labradoodle, Footie Bear,) up into the Durango and heading off to adventure and mis-adventure alike.  Whether it was kitschy kiddie parks like Storyland, the Kancamagus to splash in the streams and climb on rocks, the beaches of New Hampshire and Maine, or the Chinese Buffet where she raided the sushi bar with a ruthlessness not seen since the Vikings pillaged Western Europe.  The destination was never as important as just being in our little spaceship vehicle, an eclectic band of inter-planetary star travelers, lightspeeding through the alien landscape of northern New England.  Kris always piloted the vehicle; she loved driving.  I was left to co-pilot and navigate.  In the back, two rambunctious boys, Chris and Ean would often squabble and bicker, leaving Lexi to mother them and prevent them from inflicting serious bodily injury on each other.  I loved riffing with the kids, verbal gymnastics of my own A.D.D. mind to engage (and distract) the two boys, while mercilessly teasing Lexi.  Sometimes when things strayed too far from at least some semblance of decorum, Kristina, always in a calmly assertive tone, would warn whichever perpetrator of their mayhem had crossed the boundaries of acceptable vehicular cooped conduct to knock it off lest there be consequences, privileges revoked.  Coming from a strict, military family background, and having mucked up my own chances at parenting with my three boys through mostly rancorous and shrill attempts at controlling their behavior, I sometimes felt Kris was too lax and lenient in her approach.  But as I accepted my failures at raising three boys into three adult men who no longer speak to me, and realizing I was far from expert, I kept my mouth shut, listened…and learned, as Kris the teacher, taught me the fine art of parenting.    

 

            Kristina and I had first met on the Island of Misfit Toys.  Measured Progress was a company that gathered those silly standardized tests from school districts across the country, and hired eminently overqualified employees such as Kris and myself to apply their primitive 4 point grading rubric to assess whether those students were genius or dunces, and hence by association, measure the progress of those varied school districts.  Most of the “scorers,” as we were called, were retired, inactive, or summer vacationing teachers, while some like myself, merely satisfied the requirement of a bachelors degree standard.  The gathering of people at that company came from various backgrounds, circumstance, and experiences, hence the term: Misfit Toys.  Kris and I were both recently separated from bad marriages, and awaiting the outcome of our divorces.  Neither of us had worked regular jobs in awhile and this was our first foray back into the world of gainful employ.  On one of our fifteen minute breaks one day, while the others at our table had all gone off to the kitchenette or outside to catch some air, I noticed this one blonde woman had stayed behind and opened a book to read.  Her hair was pulled back in a severe pony-tail, and her green eyes focused with hawkish intensity on the book she clutched in both hands.  As a writer of some aspiration, my intrigue was piqued: Aha! A rare and threatened species: the Green Eyed, Freckled Face Reader!  Much to her initial annoyance, I interrupted to inquire what she might be reading; I think I don’t remember exactly what she was reading, mostly because my initial query was only intended to afford segue into letting her know that I, was a writer!

 

So we became friends…  It wasn’t long before I handed over a manuscript for Kris, the teacher, to critique.  I’ll never forget the day we both sat in our separate cars in the company parking lot, while during our lunch break I ate pb&j and Kristina perused my detective novel.  Unable to contain my anticipation, I left my vehicle and crossed the lot to rap on her window and see if she might provide some early feedback.  “I’m reading!” she snapped after rolling the window down.  I slunk away, having learned that Kris had the unique ability to hyper-focus on a task when called upon, and woe to those who might seek to distract her!  A short time later, I showed her the first chapter of a children’s chapter book I had once started but that had sat dormant a few years as I wallowed in depression and the darkest years of my marriage.  The story was about a little boy giant who didn’t want to be a giant.  The premise was that he would go on a quest to seek out his uncle Malachi, a leprechaun, with hopes that Malachi’s leprechaun magic could transform him into a normal sized boy.  Some of the idea had been marinating in my head for those years, but I hadn’t possessed the energy of will to sit down and draft it onto paper.  Kris read it and looked at me with those green eyes of her and told me: “You have to finish this.”  Thus inspired, I began formulating more chapters on our 15 minute breaks, frantically scribbling onto note pad paper with a #2 pencil.  Within a few weeks, I had most of the first draft written, but still had not conceived an ending. 

 

Kris and I started hanging out together outside of work, going on those mini-road trips to the beach and mountains.  I’ll never forget the time we climbed Mt. Major, overlooking gorgeous Lake Winnipesaukee.  Ean was not yet a year old and Kris was carrying him in baby harness, not on her back, but clutched to her bosom, close to her heart.  Their bond was almost mystical to witness.  Kris had told me that Ean was her angel, a gift…the beautiful flower that emerged from the scorched cracked earth of a horrible marriage.  My own gift is that I apparently possess a soul and demeanor that provides comfort and sanctuary to people, strangers and friends alike, to confide to me their deepest secrets, their most grievous wounds.  Early on in our friendship Kris had confided to me the hideous details of her recent escape from marriage to an abusive cretin who warrants no further mention than “abusive cretin” is about the most benign description I can provide of his character.  Watching the tenderness she showered on Ean, I was struck by Kris’ ability to turn her darkest moments into an unconditional and abiding love.  Where many people emerging from abusive relationships turn bitter, cynical, and deeply mistrustful of all human beings, Kris instead found her strength and light.  Where some might look upon the child left behind such a tumultuous relationship with some measure of resentment, a constant reminder of that person’s enduring control over the course of their life, Kris could only see Ean as her gift for having endured, for having survived.  She told me chose Ean’s middle name of Gabriel to pay homage to the angel of strength and light that so inspired her.   

 

On this day, I also witnessed the strength and determination of a former national champion roller skater.  The day was hot, her face was red, and sweat poured from Kris’ brow as we labored up the mountain.  I offered numerous times to relieve her of the burden of lugging Ean up the slope of that trail.  But as she huffed and puffed during numerous pauses in our climb, she would stubbornly say: “I’m okay.  I just need to rest a minute.”  I wonder now if at least some of her fatigue wasn’t the product of those early cancer cells setting up base camp in her breast.  At any rate, we climbed on, up to the summit of that mountain where we realized the blue sky glory of the day.  Kris continued to gasp for breath up there in the alpine air, but her smile was as broad and expansive as the sky above us.  She hugged Ean close to her heart and kissed the top of his head, while I marveled at the two of them, bonded as one…inseparable as conjoined twins, after climbing their arduous mountain, together. 

 

There would be many more mountains for Kris to climb in the days and years ahead…

 

As Ean grew, and I got to know him and Lexi and Christopher…as Kristina and I nurtured our friendship, I had an epiphany with my children’s story; I conceived the climax and ending to the story.  I knew I had to incorporate Kris’ beautiful children, who in many ways grew to be my surrogate family (while my own family continued to become more estranged from me) into the story somehow, utilizing  each of their unique personalities as characters and friends for my little giant. 

 

In “their” scene, Francis MacGillicuddy, the “Reluctant Giant” (title of the story) is wandering through the Woods of Doom, on his mournful way home after having learned from Malachi, atop Mt. Ginormous, that Malachi’s magic: “Can’t change what is, but only help reveal what is.”  Saddened by the reality that he must remain a giant, and discover his giant purpose on his own, Francis abandons caution to short-cut home through a woodland inhabited by goblins, ogres, and beasties.  Head down and pitying his destiny, he chances upon a crying little girl.  He soon learns that the girl’s two brothers are stranded with their dog, on a rock out in the middle of the Raging River, just upstream from a cascading waterfall.  Apparently while trekking through the woods, the dog, while carrying the fatigued younger brother, jumped into the river to chase a duck; the older brother jumped into the stream to save his little brother and the dog.  All three were swept away in the current until they landed on the rock, where they have remained stuck while their older sister on the riverbank weeps for their safety.  Francis, though he can’t swim, utilizes his size, wading out to the marooned trio, lugging them all back to shore, and in the process, discovers his purpose and utility at being larger than a normal sized boy.  A happy ending is realized for all.

 

After finishing the first draft, and lending it to Kristina for critique, she pronounced it a “wonderful and amazing” story.  More importantly, she encouraged me to finish the rewrites as quickly as possible, that literary agents would most surely be scrambling over each other to acquire me and my little story to represent to publishers.  I did eventually finish the final draft, but years later now, I’ve attracted only nibbles; one agent proposed I shorten it into a picture book (the language and dialogue and development of character in this story is equally as important as the plotline, so no, I will not change it from its current format!)  Despite rejection after rejection…after even more rejections, the manuscript has languished on the back burner for this past year.  Through it all though, Kristina kept encouraging me:  “You are a wonderful writer, you WILL get this published.” 

 

Kristina believed in me.  For a writer, no greater validation can be earned.  But that was always one of her greatest gifts…to herself, and those she loved.  Belief.  One of her favorite vacation destinations was Disney World, a place she visited with her children and parents on a few occasions.  A magical world where dreams come true.  Despite all the hardships, despite the ravages of cancer that she battled for eight and a half years of the nine years I knew her, despite all the setbacks…Kris believed.  Magic and dreams were real to Kris.  And real to her as well, was her unshakeable Faith in God and Heaven, and the afterlife she knew awaited her, as she knew early on in her battle, she would eventually leave us all behind in this realm for the next.  But Kris never let on to anyone what she knew.  She didn’t prepare for death, but continued to live LIFE.  And in the process, she showed us all how to live.  Appreciate it all.  Wonder at everything, big things, little things…all of it.  The chipmunk emerged from the snows of winter to scurry about the woodpile.  The vastness of sea and sky at the beach.  It’s all glorious; it’s all a gift to us in this life.  I remember the time we both sat in the rear seat of the mini-van I was still driving after my divorce; the mini-van I no longer needed as taxi for my own kids.  With the rear seat reclined, we both lay there, parked on a little dirt pullout in the woods near where I lived at the time, looking out the back window, up at the stars…and wondering, just wondering at it all.   

 

Kris and I had a falling out in our friendship in the first two years I knew her.  I wounded her deeply through my own selfishness and inconsideration and she resolved not to speak to me again.  She’d been wounded enough already in her life and had learned not to dwell on it, to move on and keep living her life…to not let others drag her down.  Though it hurt me, and I was regretful for having been just one more asshole that let her down, I respected her decision to cut me out of her life.  But one day about a year later, out of the blue, I received an email from her.  She said she had needed time to get over the loss of our friendship, the wound that I had inflicted…but now she was ready, now she wanted to forgive me and provide me another chance.  Forgiveness.  Kristina again, teaching…that forgiveness of those who hurt us, betray us, even those who purposefully do so, is the key to unlocking the pain within.  It might have been the first time in my life that anybody had truly forgiven my trespass…  The friendship nurtured and grown from that time of forgiveness has been the greatest and most meaningful of my life…

 

We moved on, continued where we left off with a new sense of who we each were, and what our relationship was…  Many more adventures, and those wonderful mis-adventures ensued…  The friendship Kris and I enjoyed, was one of those rare friendships we all are lucky to find in our lives (some never find such friends) where we could go months without seeing each other, but fall right back into the ease and comfort of each others’ company as if only a day had passed since our last parting.  There were no secrets or pretensions between us; we were open books to each other.  We shared the stories of our lives, and continued to add new chapters of our times together.  We played in the streams, climbed the rocks along the Kancamagus…we ate sand out of our sandwiches, got sunburned and dunked in the freezing ocean at the beach while trying to paddle my standup board…I continued to jump at each screeching squawk of her parrots in their cages during my visits to her home, while Kris just smiled and cooed to them…serene in her wonder at their beauty, her love for them…  

 

Because of the work I do as a nurse’s aide, tending to the dying and elderly in nursing facilities, I knew early on not only what Kris was up against, but that it was an unrecoverable path ahead for her.  I know she tried to protect those around her by not letting on the reality and extent of her illness.  I knew that eventually she would lose this battle.  I don’t know if Kris knew I knew, but I never felt a reason to bring it up to her.  It wasn’t important.  One thing I’ve learned in my work, another thing Kris helped reinforce, is that only the day, the moment you’re living is what matters.  We all have a tendency to plan ahead, as if our lives on this Earth will go on in perpetuity.  I know too much about death; it is around me every day.  But death is only the final stage of life.  I witness too many who wallow in depression at the inevitability that befalls them, as they creep closer and closer to their end.  Kris taught me that living the time that you have is what counts.  Loving the people that are a part of your life is what matters.  Each day is a gift and it is our responsibility to live it as such, with appreciation, with homage, with vitality.  “Get busy living, or get busy dying,” is Andy Dufrense’s commentary in “The Shawshank Redemption.”  Kristina Conti exuded this ideology.     

 

Kris never did see a moose that day up in North Nowhere New Hampshire.  I did.  Saw two in fact, probably a half-mile off, wandering through a marsh on their way to the woods.  After spotting them I called to Kris, who was busy checking out some “small” thing with her boys.  “There!  Way out there, Kris, do you see the moose?” I called.  By the time she joined me at my vantage, the moose had disappeared into the woods.  She seemed disappointed, but grateful that I had seen them, that the moose had been there for me, and through me, for her...

 

Something more magical, more wondrous than moose happened that day.  Life…imitated the art I had created in my children’s story. 

 

We were packing up our picnic, getting ready for the return “voyage” home in the Durango.  Footie Bear slipped collar though and Kris was left holding a leash with no dog as the rambunctious Labradoodle sprinted for the water.  We all looked on in shock as Footie plunged into the Androscoggin River, swimming out into deep water a hundred yards from the bank, and immediately being swept downstream with the current.  Kris fell into panic mode.  The kids screamed for Footie to return, yet Footie kept swimming further from shore.  Beside herself with a “mother’s fear” for her beloved dog, Kris made a move towards the water: “I have to go after her!”  I grabbed onto her from behind to prevent her from doing so.  A dog in the water was one thing, I wasn’t going to witness my friend being swept away.  Now I knew how important Footie was to Kristina; she’d told me how faithful that big loveable mutt was to her during all the darkest hours of her various cancer treatments, how Footie was always there for her, by her side, comforting.  I also knew that Kristina made little distinction between humans or animals, that watching Footie being carried off by the Androscoggin was no different than if it had been one of her children.

 

We began running, down the path along the bank, as Footie eventually seemed to realize her dilemma, but now seemed powerless to help herself.  We followed her progress through a set of rapids…running to keep pace with her drift downstream, me hobbling after the others on a knee wounded with a torn meniscus, as well as stitches from another unrelated minor procedure, and worrying the whole time that one of them would plunge in after the dog.  Having grown up around water, immersing myself frequently in water activities, as a former competitive swimmer, surfer, triathlete, certified scuba diver,  sailor, lifeguard trained, and also offspring to a former lifeguarding father who relentlessly mentored us on water safety…I was well versed in the “do’s” and “don’ts” around water.  But the wailing from Christopher, the crying of Ean, the shouting of Lexi…and the tears of fear and panic in Kristina’s eyes…I knew I had to do something…

 

I also knowing how difficult it is to swim while fully clothed, so I stopped running and quickly stripped down to my bra and panties while the others continued to run along the path; none of them were aware of what I was doing.  I jumped into the Androscoggin and began swimming after Footie, remembering old training to swim a “heads-up” stroke in order to keep a visual focus on my “victim.”  After a hundred yards or so though, I realized I was not making sufficient progress in gaining on Footie as she was dog-paddling nearly as quickly as I was stroking.  I had no idea what lay ahead, whether there were more dangerous rapids or waterfalls to come, so I decided to modify my stroke to a “triathlon,” open water swimming technique where one lowers their head for efficiency while taking occasional “navigational” glances above the surface.

 

What I soon discovered, that while I was making better progress, Footie had finally begun to make some of her own in the manner of her “self-rescue.”  Indeed, Kristina’s beloved dog eventually came ashore in the shallows along the bank, in an eddy of the stream.  Still swimming, maybe about 25yds behind at this point, I watched Lexi and a friend that was along for this day, both wade into the waist deep water and together, pull Footie the rest of the way to the muddy bank.  At just about the same time, Kris and the two boys caught up, while I, still in the water swimming, witnessed the joyful reunion of their family, tears and sobbing turning to smiles and echoing cries of relief.

 

Now, one thing you need to know about Kristina…she was the Queen of, “Take It As It Comes.”  Spontaneity and impulse were her credo and after all that she had been through in her life, very little truly surprised her.  Though she greatly appreciated wonder and magic, she accepted things as she found them; being flabbergasted or rendered speechless were not part of her daily modus operandi.  So let it be known, that I will forever take pride, that on that day, at that moment…as I finally caught up to them all, and stood wet and glistening in the knee deep water, I witnessed my life’s greatest friend, Kristina L. Conti, do the full, movie scene, “double-take,” green eyes glowing with amazement at the sight of me dripping water from my hair, in drenched bra and panties, having successfully struck her dumb with astonishment … That moment, that look, shall forever remain in my memory.  The only moment of utter shock I ever witnessed, that I ever earned, on my best friend’s face. 

 

Walking back along the path, all of us babbling and rehashing this latest episode of our many mis-adventures together, and the fact that none of them had seen me strip and jump in after Footie, it occurred to me that the climactic scene of my little story had come to fruition in our very real lives.  The dog, the boys, the crying young girl (and older girl as well)…and me, the Reluctant Giant, who had (at least tried to) come to the rescue…I smiled to myself as we hunted for the clothes I’d left strewn on the bank.  And still wet and dripping on the ride home, I told Kris of the parallels in the fictional tale, and the now real episode to add to the memoir of our times together…  Kris just smiled that serene smile as she drove, as if to convey: “Why of course this should happen in real life.  You wrote a magical story, and magic is real…”

 

*

 

I knew the moment I stepped through the door into her hospital room that Kristina’s time had come. 

 

In the past year or so, Kristina had posted occasional Facebook updates on her condition and treatments.  Though the tone was always upbeat and optimistic, for me it was too easy to read between the lines.  I knew she was only trying to protect those who loved her from worrying too much.  We all worried anyway but most of us tried to protect her from our concerns.  Her old skating mentor, Tom Bense, would intuit between the lines as I did, and he began messaging me on FB, inquiring as to what insight or inside knowledge I might provide.  Kristina was his prize student; he’d long ago coached her to a national championship with her figure roller-skating.  And during those times with her, and surely the ensuing years, I’m sure, that like all prize pupils, Tom found Kris to be her teacher’s teacher…

 

Tom and I began corresponding, both of us fretting over Kris’ condition, both of us awed and inspired by her strength.  When she posted that she was back up at Dartmouth after her latest setback, a failed clinical trial, I knew it was time.  On one of my off days I drove a borrowed vehicle (my own car having been recently failed inspection and thus illegal to drive on the road) I drove the two hours from my home in Maine to see her.  Looking wan and exhausted, Kristina, typically, seemed so matter-of-fact when I entered the hospital room.  She was on the phone with her mother and after hanging up, she fussed about her Kindle tablet giving her fits while she tried to convey assignments for her substitute teacher who was struggling to manage her class in her absence.  I had to smile, and again reiterate to Kris that she needed to relax, that the people at her school were “trained professionals” and ought to be able to handle things in her stead. 

 

On the way up to Dartmouth I had stopped for a card and a small gift.  The card showed a kitten hanging from a tree limb, with the message: “By now you’re probably tired of listening to people telling you to “hang in there.”  I also gave her the gift of a tiny stuffed, Cowardly Lion from the Wizard of Oz.  I knew Kris was a big fan of that story, again a story of magic and wonder…and love of family and home.  I explained to her why I gave her the lion, rather than the Tin Man or Scarecrow; Kris was certainly very full of heart and brains but what impressed me most was her courage.  “You’re the most courageous person I’ve ever known,” I told her.  I hope she took that to heart because I’ve known many courageous people in my life and to bestow the title of “Most Courageous” is not a title I would hand out lightly. 

 

We talked…mostly about her treatment, and what the next step was in the protocol, and the endless squabbling amongst all her “specialists” as to who had priority in her care.  I reminded her that she alone had the final say, and that at any point in all of it, she had the right of refusal, to say “No.”  To say, “Stop.”  She told me of the Reiki master who’d come to minister her, and of the “vision” she’d had during that session, of a mentoring Indian, there to comfort her.  She also told me how when she’d related the story to the Reiki master, she was told that the Indian was a recurring “assistant” the Reiki master employed with her treatments.  She told Kris that most patients never envisioned anything, let alone the vision coming directly from the mind of the Reiki master.  Somehow the two had connected on some mysterious “mind meld” level…once again, Kris, open to magic and wonder, had travelled through a mystical, magical realm…  I only smiled at her story.  Knowing Kris as I did, the story seemed so typical.  And I believed her without hesitation…Kris always believed in me, who was I to question…

 

I only saw Kristina one more time after that hospital visit.  I drove the borrowed car to her home a few days after she’d come home from the hospital.  By then we all knew her end was imminent as she was in the care of Hospice.  Her mom and dad, brother and sister-in-law were there in her home.  And as usual, she seemed unsurprised to see me as I went into her room where she lay in bed resting, watching a soap opera on TV with her mother sitting vigilantly beside her.  I wanted to talk about deep and meaningful things, to have a few moments together with just the two of us.  But I felt awkward, and almost  an intruder on her last days with her family.  We chatted awhile.  I offered my service as a professional in the field of caring for the dying; she and her mother thanked me but assured me it was too soon for that yet.  Then I hugged my beautiful friend, kissed her forehead, and told her I loved her, before I excused myself.  In the kitchen, I squeezed more fiercely, hugged and cried onto the shoulder of her sister-in-law whom I had only met that day.  I sobbed more freely on the long drive home, knowing it was possible I might never see Kristina again…

 

On Saturday, May 16^th of this year, I received a text message from Tom, saying Kris had been taken to the hospital the night before, and that Kris’ mom had conveyed to him that, “There wasn’t much time.”  I quickly showered, made the decision to ignition my illegal vehicle, and began driving up to Laconia, over the roads I’d driven so many times before on my way to visits at Kristina’s home in Barnstead NH.  Halfway there, I pulled over at a convenience store when a FB notice pinged on my cell phone.  Kris’ daughter, Lexi, had posted…her mom had gone to join the angels early that morning…I was too late…

 

I cried and sobbed and shook with a grief, there in my car, in a convenience store parking lot in Farmington, New Hampshire.  I thought about driving the rest of the way up to the hospital, but I didn’t know if Kris’ body would still be there and didn’t want to again intrude on her family expressing their goodbyes to her.  I’ve also been around enough death to know…Kristina was already gone; all that was left behind was the shell which she journeyed through this life with.  I’ve already seen too many of those emptied shells...

 

And I needed to be alone…

 

I decided to send my farewell in another manner.  Arriving home, I switched from car to my scooter.  I wanted to go down to the sea, to the Little Beach in Ogunquit, Maine where Kris and I first went, the first time we were together outside of Measured Progress.  I thought I might go and toss a Spring flower, a symbol of renewed life, into the ocean.  For I knew Kris was not gone, but had simply bloomed into another life…  But the daffodils in my little, unkempt garden, had all wilted and died… 

 

I went to the beach anyway, figuring I’d toss a stone into the water instead, a heart shaped stone to symbolize my enduring love for Kristina’s heart and soul.  I didn’t know if I could even find such a stone, but after only a few minutes of search, I did find one.  I took a picture of it in my hand, then tossed it into the water at our Little Beach, overlooking the surf spot that is most dear to me…vowing that forever forward, Kristina’s heart will be with me each time I visit that beach, each time I surf that wave…

 

Per usual, on the day of Kristina’s memorial service, I was running late; I’m always running late.  Two hours by scooter, over winding back country roads, puttering up steep inclines, looking at my watch, worrying that I would be late for one of the most important occasions of my life, the memorial honoring my dearly departed best friend.  I swore to the woods around me. Then white-knuckled the descents on the backsides of those climbs, worrying that I would instead smear myself all over the road and miss the day entirely… 

 

Somehow I made it, jamming the scooter into a parking spot, sprinting a hundred yards to the church, finding a seat and looking down at my watch, still huffing and out of breath, and seeing that I HAD made it, if to the very last minute…somehow, I knew Kristina loved every bit of this last mis-adventure together.  Somehow I knew she was smiling that warm smile down upon me, thinking: “Oh, Mo…so typical of you.  But what a ride!” 

 

If we’re lucky, in this life we sometimes meet another whose soul entwines with ours as an extraordinary, special friend.  Kristina Conti was my extraordinary, special friend.  She inspired me with her strength and courage for sure, but more importantly she won my enduring affection with her sense of awe and wonder, her unbreakable optimism…and her boundless love.  I will continue to love Kristina, and though she is gone from this world, she will never be missing from my heart.  I will continue to find inspiration and nurture, at her wisdom and grace, and I will endeavor to honor her life by living up to the example she set for me and so many others. 

 

Kristina leaves behind countless souls…Lexi, Chris, Ean of course…her mom and dad and brothers, extended family and friends…all those children she taught at school.  But her legacy will live on in each of our hearts.  As the minister said at her service, her children have learned at too young an age that life truly isn’t fair…that bad things happen to good people.  Kris was more than good, she was magnificent.  She was our shining star, brighter than most you’ll find in this universe.  I get angry sometimes when I hear that old line: The Lord gives you no more burden than you can carry…  Sorry, though Kris carried her many burdens with strength and will of heart, she was laden with far more than any of God’s children deserve.

 

So what am I left with?  Memories, inspiration, love…and an unpublished children’s book that she believed in.  I owe it to Kristina, to repay the debt of her encouragement and belief in me, to get that story into print.  This summer I will resume my search for an agent.  People tell me all the time: “Why not self-publish?”  Well, besides the expense, self-publishing is the near certain road to obscurity.  Sure, we’ve all heard about the authors who’ve struck millions going this route, but they’re more rare than the Dodo bird.  The reality is that most self-published books reach a readership that extends no further than maybe family members and a few friends, and they only will bother when provided with free copies.  One thing I know, this is a GOOD story and deserves a wider audience.  I also have promised to dedicate this to Kris, Lexi, Christopher, and Ean.  They all inspired the chapter that pulls the theme of this story, the theme of my life in fact, together.  If it comes to it, I will publish it myself if I fail to find representation, but I’m not ready to give up…Kristina believed in me…that’s enough for me to keep paddling on…Kristina Conti never gave up, not for one second of her life…

 

Kris, I love you.  I miss you terribly.  I grieve not only for myself, but your mom and dad and brothers, everyone that knew and loved you…mostly for the beautiful children you raised.  Please rest in peace knowing that Lexi has inherited your strength and courage; she will move through her life with your same grace.  Christopher and Ean both have your heart; both are old souls with brains and wisdom beyond their years.  I know you’re somewhere over the rainbow now…I hope you’ve found your peace, that you’ve have found your home…and don’t worry about all of us, we’re still on the yellow brick road, skipping together towards the merry old land of Oz…I know we’ll see you again someday, probably back in Kansas...