Bev

Bev

On 9/11, Bev phoned me. When I told her that I was worried sick about my family in the New York area, she said, “Come over.” We hung out that night, had dinner and talked as we watched the developments on the news.

When our mutual friend Larry died two years later, Bev was the one who called to tell me. “Come over,” she said, and we spent the afternoon together, sharing memories about him.

When Bev, who worked at the zoo, was hand-raising a leopard cub, I said I’d love to see him. “Come over,” she said, after making me promise not to touch any animals on the way, since the cub’s immune system hadn’t developed yet.

Whenever I needed help, Bev always seemed to know, even when I hadn’t said anything. The phone call or IM would come: “Come over.” And we would hang out, and eat, and talk.

We spoke over IM yesterday, and then she had to go. She was in the middle of an on-line writers’ meeting and had to pay attention.

A few minutes later, I put up yesterday’s cat post and sent her the link. She typed back: “Lovely.”

It was the last word I would ever hear from her. I just found out tonight that she’s gone.

I want to go over to Bev’s to hang out and talk and process this.

And I can’t.