The Thank You Note JoAnn Won't Read

Jo Ann, furthest right, in a pink mumu.

I've known JoAnn my whole life. We grew up in the same small Maine town, back when the paper mill paid the bills while making people sick. Until our generation, most people stayed put. But like many of our age, JoAnn and I both ventured out.

For most of our grown-up years, she lived inside my phone. I watched her family grow up in photos and cheered from a few states away.

“For most of our grown-up years, she lived inside my phone.”

Once, though, as young adults, we drove west to where she was living in Fort Collins, Colorado, and I somehow landed a job pouring coffee at a diner there. I lasted two nights. When the second shift ended I walked out with a dime in my pocket and announced that I’d be looking for other employment. JoAnn laughed right along with me. I can still hear it.

She died this week, and the sting is sharp. We hadn't shared each other's ordinary days in years. Maybe that's the thing about losing someone from your past: they were holding a piece of it for you, the mill town and the long drive and the girl who earned ten cents for a night's work and thought it was hilarious.

"Maybe that's the thing
about losing someone from
your past: they were holding
a piece of it for you . . . ”

So, JoAnn, for the red hair and the freckles, and for a smile that kept showing up even in the hard times: thank you.

She won't read this, at least not in any way I can yet picture. Still, I believe the love I feel as loss isn't wasted. Gratitude doesn't need a reader to count. Seeing someone, even from far away, is its own kind of witnessing, a quiet appreciation for sharing a piece of this precious life. ➰