It must be a sign I’m spending too much time writing in what used to be Byrne and Duncan’s bedroom. (And, for a brief time, Byrne’s and mine.) This week I’ve thought of her every day.
On Monday, when I picked the first Meyer lemon from the lemon tree Gary planted a year ago. Tart, brilliant and somehow exotic – the fruit itself reminds me of her. And I smiled in the certainty that she, who planted so many beautiful things around this house, would love the luscious new resident.
On Tuesday, I wanted nothing more than to hear how she would spin a double dose of disappointing news that kicked me in the shins. She would have restored my confidence, somehow. She always did.
On Wednesday, when I took out all my irritation on a bike ride and a silly Zumba class, I laughed at myself – on her behalf. Ages ago I danced, under her proud eyes, at a Byrne Miller Dance Theatre master class. Now I am one of a group of grown women, all three counts off a frantic beat, trying to liquefy our hips to music Byrne would have disqualified as such.
And then today arrived and my swirling collisions with the spirit of the woman I still miss settled into a reason. She was born on this day in 1909, one hundred and two years ago. She just wanted me to remember.