Remembering Ann

To the moment of her dying, Ann radiated joy.


At the camp reunion, she was the surprise: a woman of great intellect, grace, gentleness, humor. She embraced the gift of her life, her family, her students, her friends. We sat on that hill leading down to campfire for a long time, talking. I don't remember that conversation; I remember the absorption and joy.

Not long after, cancer settled in her brain. She didn't surrender to self-pity: she published records of her journey in a newspaper. She didn't stop: she golfed and vacationed. She returned to the Louisiana fields and bayou of her childhood. She delivered notes of thank you and left others for her family.

For some time, Ann had slipped deep into my memory, so when she surfaced last night on Facebook, I was uncommonly moved, not just by thinking about her and by seeing the photographs documenting her youth, family, and illness, but by the thoughtful impulse of her oldest child, a son, who posted that trove. Had a shared friend not tagged me, I would not have seen his album.

Caffery wrote, "My mother, known among family and friends by many nicknames, passed away on February 5th, 2003, of brain cancer. She was originally told she had maybe nine months to live, but she held on for almost two years. She was 53. On that date, every year, a small handful of people usually reach out and lend kind words or stories to me, my sister, my brother, and my father. This year, I found myself pouring through old pictures at the same time. I thought posting some of my favorites would be a great way to share some of her with all of those who still love her, as well as those who never could."

We reunited friends had such ease with each other after so many years. The love we shared of the place that brought us together and of each other shines in our faces. Now, joined to Sister's memory, I join her son's courage and generosity. In him, there is much of his mother.