I learned that Jillian had been a daughter, a sister, a mother, and a wife.  I also learned that Jillian had died young after cancer got her.

I learned this last Saturday, while attending the posthumous celebration of her life with Robyn. I never met Jillian in life.

The celebration was held in a large gathering room in a famous building. The room is already crowded, and more people are arriving, so Robyn and I quickly grab two tabletop seats near the entrance. In Jillian’s honor, many attendees wear garments that sparkle or feature images of animals.

I assumed many of these are Jillian’s surviving relatives, friends, or former coworkers.  Then there are folks like Robyn, whose only connection to Jillian is Robyn’s connection to Jillian’s brother.  And I assume others are in attendance based on a connection to Jillian’s sister, or her mother, or her father, or Jillian’s surviving spouse.  Finally, there are the folks, including me, who are even further removed from the life of today’s principal.

The celebration gets delayed because Jillian’s father fails to arrive on time. Seeing Jillian’s brother so obviously stressed, agitated by the father’s absence as he paces anxiously near the entrance to the room, Robyn reminds me that the son and father have longstanding issues owing to the elder’s lack of dependability and lengthy history involving alcohol.

I feel relieved as Robyn points out the father, who has just arrived. At last, the celebration of his daughter’s life can get underway.

***

Yet, Jillian’s father elects not to speak to the assemblage.  Likewise, Jillian’s sister, even Jillian’s surviving spouse, stay silent, leaving me to speculate why.

Rather, we only hear from Jillian’s brother and mother, who take turns with a microphone to reminisce. I could not tell you much about the substance of their words, though it has only been several days. What I do vividly recall, however, is the emotion I felt in those fleeting moments, especially the voice of Jillian’s mom, which catches and quavers whenever she says something that reminds her that her daughter is dead.

***

The mother’s emotion transports me to a different time and place, and as she speaks, I recall the belated celebration of Lee’s life, long delayed by the pandemic.  I remember taking several weeks to prepare remarks for the occasion. No humor, my words were intended to be heartfelt. Importantly, they were truthful and factually accurate. I wanted people to recall how strong and magnanimous Lee had been during her life. Practicing my lines at home, I would struggle to get through them without breaking down in halting sobs. During the celebration, I remember feeling relieved and surprised for having gotten through without a major meltdown.  My words undoubtedly remain stored somewhere on my hard drive, but I have no clear memory today of the specifics.

Instead, I remember the sight of familiar, towering trees that greet me as I turn onto the frontage road that terminates at Deer Tick Manor on the evening before the celebration; I remember an early morning stroll around the gardens, which Lee, through diligence and plain hard work had created from weedy dirt, most of all, the magnificent “Totie Fields,” which stirred up bittersweet memories of our days together, and how, with every passing season, Lee looked forward to tinkering, improving or expanding her Nature handiwork; I recall the familiar summer buzz of the insects and sweet birdsongs; I recall the day of our celebration was also the hottest day of the summer; I remember the close friends and family, who arrive early to help me get organized and set up; I recall feeling humble gratitude that so many people have shown up to celebrate Lee’s life, despite the travel distances involved and the long passage of time since her death; I remember marveling at the sight of vehicles lining both sides of the road, disappearing into the distance. I recall being deeply gratified that so many had felt inspired to say words to Lee on this special day of remembrance.

I also remember how we ate, drank, laughed, danced, played music, and sang until the day was spent. The remaining few, perhaps a dozen or so, continued the celebration into the night. A few remained the following morning to bring a quiet conclusion to a fitting celebration of Lee’s life.

Briefly, as I listen to two relative strangers speak of a woman I will never know, I am transported to another place and time. I dab a tear with a cocktail napkin, hoping no one notices.