Zach the Cat : Inez Lawrence

How can someone so little

be bigger than life?
I told her she was the toughest little piece of leather
I'd ever met.
She'd look down, purse her lips together to make a sort-of grin,
and say, “You do what you have to do.”

She nearly made it to 96.

She was no bigger than a little spark of fire from two sticks scraped together.
But she could sure make things burn.
Her little spark made her next-door neighbor burn with anger and hostility.
Her little spark made her renters burn with compliance and obedience.
Her little spark made her friends burn with loyalty.
Her little spark made her family burn either with their allegiance to her
Or their absence from her (according to her sometimes strongly opinionated perspective).

She kept her house, her yard, her self--all by herself--

almost to the last.
Her house was her church.
Earth and dirt were her friends.
Clutter was her job.
Authentic, trustworthy people were her family.
And she rode time like a bucking bronco,
daring it to throw her before the buzzer sounded.
She was the victor; she beat the bronco,
Dying in her boots—just like she wanted.

After some years into their marriage,
the young husband lost his job
because of an economy that had tanked from the Great Depression.
He didn't do well.

In those days there was no medicine for the great inner depression
her husband suffered.
And so he took his own life.
But she didn't collapse. She didn't leave home.
She readied the house for years of boarders.
She mowed her own yard and pulled her own weeds.
She hung her clothes out on the line to dry
right in the middle of town.

Anybody else would have quit. Moved out. Sold the house. Maybe kicked the bucket.
She kept going.

There never was another husband.

There never were children.
She was close to her other siblings, but they had their own lives and families.
And so she went to work for a publisher who made telephone books.
She worked there 40 years.

Disappointment visited too often.

Disease tripped her up too many times.
Desolation gripped her soul during the holidays each year.
But she always regained her energy.
She always rebuilt her hope.
She always resisted the darkness that sought to consume her.

She was opinionated, loving, sharp-tongued, merciful,

A person of humility--yet she stopped at no expense for the quality she liked.
She was full of stories and sometimes gossip.
There were times of cake, coffee, homemade spaghetti sauce, and spice tea.
There were times of asking about my family, my friends, my work, my feelings.

In the 31 years that we were friends, what year did I begin to tell her I loved her?
I can't remember.
It was awkward.
She was not affectionate or verbal
about all that kind of thing.
But her love was sterling-silver real.

After all our time of talking (which was mostly me listening

and her talking),
I'd scoot the kitchen chair back from the giant table in the little kitchen
and walk over to hug her bye.
In the later years
It felt like I was hugging a bag of bones.
“I love you,” I'd say.
“iloveyoutoo” she'd say all shoved together in a hurry.

She gave me her best, her most.

I had no idea I would miss her this much.

I sure do love you, Mrs. Lawrence.