"Thank You for Being My Friend"

	These are the last words Teri said to me...

	I knew her for about five years before she became a close friend.  I lived in the village and she lived on The Hill.  A car ride of three miles, but I considered it the distance between the Halves and Halve-nots.  Teri didn't.

	She ran her husband's gift shop in the village.  Everyone who came in to make a purchase or just shoot the breeze with her emerged with a smile on her face.  (Except for me.  I was shy.)  When her husband decided to retire from his pharmacy and gift shop business - and from Teri as well - I didn't see her for months.  She seemed to go into hiding.

	Some time later, a friend of mine decided to remarry her husband in an outdoor Native American ceremony and ordered the invitations from the gift shop. "Oh, what a fabulous idea!  I want to come!" declared Teri.

	Teri and I were paired at a small table for the reception and soon became fast friends.  Later, I learned she had been an airline stewardess and had five daughters.  She'd also had a son, who tragically died in an auto accident when he was seventeen.  I learned that every anniversary of his death she would light a candle and meditate.

	I cut Teri's hair for her.  She disliked hairdressers who "never got it right".  "Fabulous!" She'd exclaim, then reward my efforts with fresh tomatoes, squash or flowers from her garden.

	Teri was a master gardener with a shed full of every imaginable tool and organic pesticide on the market. Every bud she'd cultivate would blossom into a vibrant bouquet, every green thing in her yard would grow to be strong and voluminous.
 
 	"Here's how you keep the deer away, Janet, for less than a dime!"  She showed me how to strain an egg yolk, then mix it with a spoonful of dish detergent and water and spray it on the plants.  She enjoined me to become a member of the garden club, although I scarcely knew the difference between a pansy and a petunia.

	For Teri's St. Patrick's Day party each year, she treated me and seven other gals to her lovely china and lace dining table.  We each were assigned a dish, but Teri supplied the corned beef, cabbage and potatoes.  She wasn't Irish, but we all had to wear green, and everything had a green tinge to it.
	
	One of the things I volunteered for, thanks to Teri, was the Pawling Concert series, held at the school at which Teri was employed as a part-time librarian.  I had various duties, such as sending out programs and information to the community.  There were five concerts a season, ranging in cost from thirty to forty dollars.  Volunteers were expected to pay for their tickets - as a contribution to the school.  At the time I was counting every penny, as a single mom with two kids in college.  Teri would surreptitiously plant a season's pass in my purse. 
													When Teri got sick with cancer, a few of her daughters set up a schedule to take her out to lunch at least once a week.  "It's good for me to get out and about," she'd say. 

	 When it was my turn, one of her daughters dropped her off at the restaurant, and she hobbled in.  I was dismayed by her frail frame and her wan color.  "What's the matter, Janet?  You look so glum,"  she said, offering a chuckle - and a cough.  "Don't worry, I'll save you a spot up there."

	"Make sure it's where the action is," I quipped.  Teri laughed quietly.

	Soon after, she went to live in California with her eldest daughter, to spend her last days in comfort. I knew I'd never see her again. 

	Two months later I was in a rehab facility recovering from a mild stroke.  The phone rang at eleven o'clock at night, and I couldn't imagine who it could be at that late hour.  I'd told my daughter not to forward calls after eight. It was Teri, in Los Angeles, where the time was much earlier.

	"I called to say goodby," she said in a weak and raspy voice. "And to thank you for being my friend".  Her voice faded and became a coughing spell.  

	"Oh God, Teri," was about all I could manage. "I'll...miss you."  And then I heard a click.

					the end