The last time we saw each other in person was nine years ago. I remember the day vividly—you had made the decision to retire early, and while I was happy for you, the reality of your departure hit me hard. I cried on your last day, and you reassured me that we would see each other again, that we’d do lunch. But deep down, I think I knew there was a possibility that life would get in the way. I remember telling you it wouldn’t be the same, my voice small, I admitted, “I won’t get to see you every day.” And as life unfolded, our schedules never aligned—that last day truly became the last time I saw you.
I followed you on Facebook — stalked you like a stereotypical millennial, eager to keep up with your life. I saw the joy you found in spending time with your family—never once did you refer to your kids as “step-kids,” you loved them fully and completely. You adored babysitting your grandbabies, showering them with love and laughter. You were a force of warmth, kindness, and just the right amount of fiery spirit. Then, this past Sunday, I saw you had an Instagram account; you appeared as a friend recommendation, and I immediately sent you a request. What I didn’t know was that you had passed away the day before.
Losing you so soon feels deeply unfair. You were taken far too young, especially someone like you—so structured, so intentional in the way you lived, from your scheduled breaks for breakfast, lunch, and even brushing your teeth. You had created a rhythm in life that worked so beautifully for you, and now, far too early, that rhythm has come to an end.
I carry so many cherished memories of you, and now, losing you makes me reflect on my own priorities. You were not only successful in your career but also in life itself. Everyone remembers your kindness, but more importantly, you knew how to strike the perfect balance between work and home. You switched off when it mattered, poured yourself into your passions, found joy in your bowling league, and honed your golf game with dedication. I will forever hold onto the image of you on the golf course, lying on the greens near the hole, celebrating your first-ever hole-in-one—that moment, that joy, will always be etched in my heart.
These last few months couldn’t have been easy for you. I pray that you’re at peace now. Here’s to many more hole-in-ones in the stars. You are deeply loved. Thank you for all of the lessons. You will never be forgotten.
Love,
Sandy.
The Inner Workings of My Thoughts 