Rest in Peace, Dear Bonnie

Bonnie and I were together for over twenty years. In that time, she made it clear to me who was her best friend in the world. Their friendship went all the way back to high school, and even though many miles and many years had kept them physically separate, the friendship endured. I knew it to be a genuine 'heart connection'. In all our years together, I heard Bonnie refer to her only as "Linda from Savannah".

I figured that Bonnie and Linda From Savannah must have shared some terrific laughs over the years, since Bonnie saw tremendous humor in things that I wasn't so quick to laugh over. An example I often give is that she could erupt into uproarious laughter at someone tripping and falling on their butt, and only worry about their physical condition afterward. My leaning is to empathize first, and then see the humor in the situation, in that order. Sometimes, I don't see the humor at all. I have often heard it said that I am "too serious". Bonnie was a lot more free than I, in that respect.

Bonnie has been gone for over two years, and I am starting to recall many examples of that tendency in her. It actually awakens that sense of humor in me. Oddly enough, very early in our relationship I became aware of her love of the Three Stooges. I found out in our first weeks together that she actually had the hard copy of Moe's book, Moe Howard &The Three Stooges, whereas I only had the soft cover version. Unlike most every other woman on the Earth, she was a fan. Laughing at pratfalls came natural to her.

An incident that stands out in my mind happend at a Mongolian Barbeque restaurant that we frequented. We were standing across the counter from the chef as he cooked one of our meals on the large, circular stone grill. I had just handed him my bowl, filled with the ingredients I had chosen; the last being a half serving spoon of peanuts from a large, punchbowl-sized container on the counter. Bonnie and I were chatting, and as I was gesturing I accidentally hit the large serving spoon that I had shoved back into the peanuts in the bowl. Peanuts went flying everywhere, like confetti. Respecting my sensitivity, Bonnie did her best to keep from laughing out loud; largely to no avail. Even years later, when we would share this memory, she would laugh uncontollably and I would eventually smile. It's easier for me to smile today, and even chuckle to myself as I recall that moment. Bonnie helped me in that.

So the other day, during my lunch hour--after having started a conversation on Facebook with Linda From Savannah the day before--I was texting her about Bonnie's undying love and friendship for her. As I alternately texted and took bites from my homemade meal of sweet and sour pork and brown rice, I became animated as I edited the messages. As I reviewed something I had just typed, my hand hit the fork embedded in the meal, and brown rice went flying all around me. I immediately felt a "presence" and wondered if perhaps Bonnie was letting me know she approved of what I was typing.

As I get older, this type of thing seems to happen more and more.