A Long Soak in a Fragrant Bubble Bath

In memory of my dear friend, Shirley Eliakim. Some friendships touch your heart, and despite living far away, the warmth remains.  Shirley, who lived in South Africa,  passed away from non-Hodgkin lymphoma a few years ago. ) 

The receptionist gave me the message: “Shirley called – please phone.”  I didn’t recognize the number and was puzzled.  Couldn’t think of any ‘Shirley” who might call.  I returned the call and left a message: “Don’t know who you are, but if it’s Shirley from Sou

th Africa, it’s good to hear from you.  Call again!”

It was Shirley from South Africa.  Friend from my past, who reminds me of days long gone, when we were young and went to University together.  “I remember, Sha, how you schlepped me through psychology.  I was so stupid and lazy, and you did all the work and told me exactly what to learn for the exams.  I remember the series of mnemonics you worked out for us.  You were so serious, so intent on doing well!”  Which makes me chuckle.  Funny, the things my friend remembers about me!

It takes me a few minutes to recover from the shock of seeing how Shirley has aged over the last few years.  Her deep-set eyes are furrowed; her skin is pale and paper-thin; lines ring her fragile neck.  I see myself mirrored in her response to me; the ungainly extra mass, the double chin, the scaly hands that no amount of cream will smooth away.

Shirley greets me in her playful way, recalling happy moments of our youth.  Then kisses and hugs me, her diminutive frame commanding, “Hug me tight!” Crashing through my awkward tentativeness, an adaptation to years devoid of physical affection.  Her warmth unnerves me, overwhelms me with a crushing sense of deprivation for a million hugs and kisses neither given nor received. 

We talk; share our news; bring each other up to date.  I tell her of my mother’s death and the low-grade grief that permeates my being.  She shares her frustration at her sister’s immigration to Australia.  “I know she’s doing what’s right for her," she says.  “Yet I feel so angry … so abandoned … so alone.” 

We bask in the glow of our long-weathered friendship, reminiscing about the past, talking about our concerns and hopes, reflecting on the turns and twists of our lives, the women we are and continue to become.

It is only a short encounter and all too soon, Shirley has to go.  Many years will pass before we meet again.  Yet, when I think of her, I am warmed by our fleeting encounter. 

Being with Shirley is a long soak in a hot, fragrant bubble bath; a healing balm for my soul.