Tomorrow on my 48th birthday, I'd like to think that my best friend will look down on me from heaven and bless me with her kind thoughts and hope for a better year in 2009.
Last year she sent me a beautiful celtic-knotwork leather appointment book and a shamrock book mark that I still use. But Muff was thoughtful like that, she was always finding a book I'd like, or a journal, or something celtic-looking that she knew I would love and then sending it to me on a whim. She practiced random acts of kindness, generosity and beauty all the time, and, though I tried, I felt that I could never overtake her in the race to procure and send the perfect gift or surprise.
It always amazed me that she had such an eye for quality. Muff could spot a cheap knock off a hundred miles away. She always preferred to buy things that were handmade, well written, intelligently designed or just plain beautiful.
She once scolded me for giving a bottle of shampoo that I'd already opened and tried (and disliked) to a food and sundries drive for the homeless. "Why would you give the homeless something that wasn't good enough for you? Don't they deserve quality products that work well, too?" I burned with shame for days after that incident.
Muff enjoyed Christmas, too, and was always regaling me with tales of the gifts she and her siblings purchased for one another. I gather it has already snowed quite a bit in Iowa, so they won't have to worry about a white Christmas, but ours isn't coming until this weekend, when we're supposed to get a light dusting of snow that is sure to send the city into a state of panic, because no one in Seattle or surrounding burbs has any idea how to deal with the white stuff. It immobilizes them every year.
But this year I will be prepared, hot tea at the ready, books lined up to read and snuggly blankets deployed on my person in case I am snowed in for the weekend. I'd like to think of Muff in heaven doing the same thing, sitting quietly and reading, enjoying a hot cup of tea and musing over her latest re-reading of Barchester Towers. If only St Peter handed out cell phones to new arrivals, I could chat with her on Christmas eve as the snow was falling, and we'd laugh together about life, love, and good books. I miss you, my friend.
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