I'm sure she knows I loved her

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

She died on a Monday in September between a weekend when my son was home and a Tuesday night pizza party. The sun didn't blink; the world didn't pause. Nothing happened - there was no presentiment of change, not even a flicker of feelings to make me think of her, my long ago friend, a woman I loved, a woman who was good to me, passing through and by and on.

Flo Grossman died on Sept. 25 and I didn't know until Dec. 19. How can this be? The world should have felt different that Monday - slighter, duller, because the space filled by a vibrant life was suddenly left vacant.

I wonder at my bones and at my heart that they didn't feel the emptiness, that I went on laughing and doing, without pause, without knowing to look up and say goodbye. And that weeks later I still didn't know.

I was 30 when I met Flo. I was in Atlanta with my husband. He was on business and among friends. I knew no one and I missed my kids. I'd left my youngest, who was only 7 months old. Flo took me under her wing.

She was about 50 then and beautiful. She had black hair that she wore in a French twist, and blue eyes that she highlighted with eye shadow, and a smile that was more striking than both. And she was always flashing that smile. Even when she was telling you something sad, she'd find the good in it, the hope, and the smile would come. "Things will work out. They always do," she used to say.

She lived in New Jersey but had grown up in Massachusetts and had shopped at Remick's in Quincy Center, so this connected us. My mother had managed a hat shop a few doors down. Maybe they had met? We talked about this, Flo speculating, believing they must have. She talked about her girlhood, and her husband and her two boys, about the importance of face cream and hair dye, about life and death and everything in between.

We saw each other only once or twice a year for maybe eight or 10 years. But we connected. We had a bond.

Flo liked to mother me and I liked being mothered. She took me to clothing stores and made me try on things I didn't need. "It's not about needing them. You should wear these things when you're young and you can," she said. Dresses with wide belts. Sleeveless shirts. Short skirts. Everything I can't wear now.

She taught me about makeup. "A little eye shadow. A little mascara. A little lipstick. See? And a little blush right here." Flo made me look better.

And she embraced my children. One year when our husbands' meeting was in Orlando and my children came along, she and her husband, Bill, met us at Disney World. She was thrilled to be hanging around three little kids and their parents. We have pictures, and in every one Flo and Bill are smiling.

She smiled. She applauded. She encouraged. She supported. And she listened.

She was the best listener.

Flo was upbeat. Rain may dampen a day but it was great for the skin. A delayed flight meant more time to read. And cancer? Well, cancer was just another challenge.

She was diagnosed after we'd stopped seeing each other. The business trips had ended years before, so what we had had ended, too. Except that love never ends, does it?

The last time I spoke to her was like the first time. She was Flo, dismissing the cancer treatments she had gone through, "Oh, you don't want to know," asking about my kids and talking about hers. "My boys." It was always "Richard and Michael. My boys." She skipped over all the operations and treatments that worked for a while but then didn't. She laughed and said, "I'm still here." And, "Things will work out. They always do."

This is how she said goodbye to me nearly a year ago.

I loved her. I think she knew this. I'm certain she knows this now.