I’m not sure I have any business writing about this, but the news hit me deep and I feel lost within its reality. In many ways I lack the words to express how I feel, and yet writing seems to be the only way I know how to process it. It’s an awkward tension.
On a recent trip to my hometown I was notified that a friend of mine had passed away. I say “friend of mine” and yet I hadn’t seen her in about six years. Even then, it was a grocery store passing, a quick hug and life update. I hadn’t been an active part of her life, nor she mine, in nearly 20 years. How does time go by that fast?
Truth be told, I don’t know if I thought of her as a “friend” when I knew her best, which was in my teens and 20s, only because she wasn’t just a friend, she was my (former) boyfriend’s mom. When I first met her at 14, I didn’t know kids and parents could be friends. She was definitely one of the cool parents, but that was as close as teen/parent relationships got in the late 90s/early 2000s, at least with other people’s parents- they were either cool or not cool.
My parents were pastors, so I’m not sure the other kids thought of them as cool, especially since we never had the good snacks, or cable. My boyfriend on the other hand, his parents were cool, they had the good snacks, cable and a boat. Though they were cool, I was nervous to meet his parents for the first time, especially his mom, girls are always nervous to meet the mom. Despite being so young, I remember very vividly Mrs. Lisa’s smile and her laugh- it was a good hearty laugh that made you want to think of a joke just to make her laugh again.
I dated her son from the time I was 14 until just before I turned 21, and seeing as I spent half of my time at his house, she was, in fact, more than a friend, she was like a second mom to me in those formative years of life. Despite being young and “in love,” unaware at the time that high school romances didn’t have the best success rate, she only ever made me feel like a permanent fixture in her family.
High school is an odd enough time, trying to navigate it is confusing and awkward. All I ever wanted (for whatever reason) was to fit in. I wanted what I think most people want, to be loved and accepted. When my high school boyfriend first showed interest in me, I was shocked. I was not “eye-catching,” I wore sweater vests and braces and was too self-conscious to have developed much of a personality at 14, so I really didn’t know what he “saw,” but when we met, something clicked instantly. This was at a time when parents still drove their kids to the movies and usually sat three rows back. Two curious 14 year olds in a dark movie theater with no supervision? “Yea right,” my dad would say.
Essentially we grew up together, sweet 16s, driver’s permits and licenses, high school graduation, college acceptances and tailgate parties, sharing time at each other’s house with each other’s parents. Despite being young, my parents loved him, so much so that they bent the “no dating till 16” rule. I not only loved him, I loved his parents, and they loved me too. I know this because I felt it, and if there’s one thing a teenager knows, it’s their feelings and how other people make them feel.
His family lived in a beautiful house on the Black River in Georgetown, SC. It was a 30 minute drive exactly from my house to his, which at such a young age felt like an eternity, but it was always worth the drive. I was greeted first by the dogs in the driveway, and then, with a smile on her face, Mrs. Lisa. She didn’t wait inside for me to make my way to the door, she’d always come out to say hello, give me a hug, and immediately I felt welcomed. Did I want a snack or anything to drink? How was my momma?
At the time, her greeting and questions seemed normal, but as I’ve gotten older, I’ve learned that not as many people are so quick to make such an effort to make you feel welcomed into their home. It’s actually an art, so much so that someone wrote a book about it, The Art of Gathering. I remember reading “when hosting a gathering and people come to your home, don’t just stay busy in the kitchen and expect them to come find you, be the first person to welcome them in and show them you are glad they are there.” That was Mrs. Lisa, whether there was a gathering or not, she was there to welcome you in.
I was an odd mix of outgoing and shy in high school. I was prone to express myself while simultaneously getting caught up in the opinions of others, stifling any sort of self expression I had stirring within me. With parents around I would usually get quiet in social situations, but when I felt like no one was expecting me to behave, I’d be the one dancing, doing impressions and taking any dare that came my way— jump in the pool with my clothes on? Of course! Eat an entire stick of butter? Sure, why not? I was reserved and outlandish at the same time.
While I always wanted to behave properly in front of my boyfriend’s mom, Mrs. Lisa knew I had a wild side, if for no other reason than she attended nearly every high school basketball game I had played in (her daughter also being on the team). So despite my “nice girl” image, she saw me foul out nearly every single game, often getting a technical called because I’d get so aggressive. Truly, I was a horrible human when I played basketball, nicknamed the Tasmanian Devil for just how chaotic I could get. And yet, Mrs. Lisa never once brought up my behavior on the court, she just loved on me and remained a safe space for me to keep growing up around.
For almost seven years we spent birthdays and holidays together. Every year for Christmas Mrs. Lisa got me a new pair of pajamas, which was always one of my favorite gifts. They weren’t just any random pair of pajamas, they were perfect for me, they were intentional. Mrs. Lisa’s pajamas were pajamas I would have picked out for myself if I could have afforded them. My most favorite were a pair of purple leopard print pajamas, I wore them so long (well after her son and I broke up) that the purple eventually faded into grey.
With any breakup there comes a time when you let go of (get rid of) all the things that remind you of the other person. That’s never been easy for me, I’m a story person who loves memories, not to mention I’ve dated some pretty good gift-givers, the best of which was my high-school-sweetheart, and his mother. Pajamas from Mrs. Lisa were the last item I still owned long after that high-school-sweetheart relationship ended and we’d both moved on. I justified keeping them because they were from Mrs. Lisa, not from my ex.
Truth be told, I’m not entirely sure I handled that break up well (I’m also not entirely sure how one does handle a break up well). I was so confused, but who isn’t when they’re almost 21, about to graduate college and still unsure of who they are and what they believe? There was a period of time, as with any breakup, where we were still seeing each other on occasion, along with each other’s families. But when things were “officially over,” that was the unexpected hit, losing the family that had become my own. No one prepares you for that.
If felt unfair that I had grown up with these people, Mrs. Lisa and Mr. Perry, who I’d come to love as family and just like that, they weren’t a part of my life anymore. I remember writing a letter to Mrs. Lisa that I still loved her and missed her. I think in a fit of grief I ripped it up, and must of calmed down at some point because I taped it back together and eventually gave it to her, in person, explaining I had ripped it up and taped it back together (who does that?). She hugged me and thanked me and said she still loved me, which meant a lot knowing her allegiance was to her son (rightfully so). I had more closure with her than I did with the ending of my relationship, but I felt at peace knowing she didn’t hate me.
From time to time when I would come home on visits I would run into Mrs. Lisa at the beach or in the grocery store, always a hug, a smile, and a few times, tears in our eyes. It was odd seeing someone you loved so much, who you had history with, knowing you only had a brief moment with them before things went back to them not being a part of your life anymore. I always wanted to linger but never knew how.
And that was the last time I saw her, one of those moments in the grocery store with tears in our eyes, long past the season of life in which we knew each other. I’m happily married now, and I can honestly say I’ve often still hoped to run into her again when visiting home. There’s been plenty of times I’ve kept my eyes peeled for her in the grocery store or at a restaurant in Georgetown, thirsty for one more hug from her, a mom who saw me through all of high school up through college, still wanting her to be proud of me.
That’s the kind of person Mrs. Lisa was, so kind-hearted and good-natured that nearly 20 years have gone by since I’ve been a part of her life and she mine, and yet I feel like I’ve lost a good friend. I’ve been caught off guard by just how hard it hit me, like I shouldn’t be so affected. The only thing I can attribute it to is who Mrs. Lisa was. She leaves that kind of an impact, whether you knew her for an afternoon or the entirety of your life, she made you feel so loved and so seen that there’s a void in her absence.
Despite having moved away long ago, now being back I feel a shift in atmosphere in Georgetown County knowing it lacks her presence. I simply cannot wrap my head around it. I have read her obituary so many times just to be sure it’s real. I keep thinking one of these times I will check again and it won’t be there, it shouldn’t be there. And yet there it is, her name next to the word “obituary,” a brief commentary on the beautiful life she lived and the heart she had for people, especially her family.
Two nights ago I laid in bed and for the first time in years, I talked to her. I cried and I said all the things I had perhaps wanted to say (but didn’t know how) when I was either too young or too unsure if it was “appropriate.” I said all the things I didn’t have time to say in the grocery store or passing by on the beach. I said goodbye, again, and I thanked her for loving me when I was young and at my most vulnerable. I thanked her for not just being a mom in my life, but being a friend. I’ve always missed her, so this feeling of missing her isn’t new, but it feels more final, at least on this side of eternity, and that part is hard to stomach. I’m grateful we shared a faith in which we believe in an afterlife and therefore no death is final, but I’ll be honest, it doesn’t lessen the pain or make it any easier.
I do believe in celebrating one’s life, but I also believe in grieving loss, and the loss of Mrs. Lisa’s life is certainly worth grieving over. For the last 20 years it’s always been possible that I run into her on a visit home, perhaps less likely as time went on, but possible. The last few days I’ve found myself still looking for her. A few times I even thought someone looked like her and I started to perk up, only to realize it’s impossible, completely baffled that this time it is in fact, impossible.
I will continue to miss her laugh and her smile, choosing to take some comfort in the fact that I will see her again, without all the confines of human relationships and rules about breakups. And if I still know anything about Mrs. Lisa, I bet she’ll be one of the first to welcome people home when they get there. Whether it’s her arms you’re looking for or your own momma’s, she’ll hold the door open for us with a smile, I just know it.
jj barrows 