It had been several years past high school graduation when I found myself at a Christmas party with a few familiar high school acquaintences.  One of the guests was the former first violinist in the high school orchestra. She was one of the smartest kids in school and was a class ahead of me. I had admired her.  She had a younger sister my sister's age, also smart and accomplished.   We had all known each other in high school, but had not really been in touch after we graduated.

At the party I said hello to my former senior classman. After we chatted for a few minutes I asked about her younger sister.  How is Paulette?  There was a brief silence and maybe even a slight gasp.  Then, very calmly and graciously she said, "Oh, you don't know that Paulette was killed in a car accident a few years ago." How sorry I felt.  I felt a little awkward at not having known this. But how could have I known?

Paulette's older sister then smiled and said, "It makes me feel good that people still ask about her.  Thank you for remembering her." I've carried that gracious statement with me for decades.  And I remembered it again last night when a parishioner's mother whom I don't see very often leaned over to me at dinner and asked, "Didn't your husband want to come with us?" She was asking about a museum tour in the City that a group of us had traveled to from Plainfield. She met us there and joined us for dinner afterward.

I felt myself grow silent wondering how I could answer her kindly since John has been dead for almost two years. I was still working out what to say when her face lit up and she remembered. Instantly we fell into each other's arms tearfully. Then I told her that her question reminded me of how John would have done it.  He would NOT have wanted to join us for the museum tour. But he would have loved to have met us for dinner and a glass of wine, maybe two. And then I said, "Thank you for asking about John.  It's good that you remembered him."