Everyone Loved Her

Our family lost a dear friend yesterday.

It's rare that I can remember the first time I met someone. Rarer still when I met them at the age of five. It was New Year's Eve, the first year my parents let me stay up until midnight, if I remember correctly. Jessie was drunk, loud, obnoxious and amazing.

She carried a gun. She talked to me like a grown-up. She dyed my hair, let me get my ears double pierced and took me to see the Phantom of the Opera. She could drive from Seattle to here in 2.5 hours instead of the four it took everyone else. She borrowed my roller skates when I was only seven, and they fit her tiny feet and we went roller-skating together. How many grown-ups do that? Over three decades and three generations, she charmed every one of us.

Jessie lived years beyond the doctors' expectations. That fits her personality and force of will so well that I have a hard time believing she is gone. I have never been one for those fuzzy, childish, earthly-minded views of heaven, but today I find myself wondering if there are roller skates up there.