There is a woman who has been precious to me for most of my life. We have never lived in the same town, nor are our children particular friends. There can be months in between brief exchanges at weddings or funerals, and yet the connection stays warm. Distance and time have no power to diminish our affection.

The other day she mentioned that she sometimes writes to me, and has not heard back. She assumes good will, that perhaps the address is old, or my life is busy. It was wonderful to hear that she trusts that I meant no harm. 

The next day I sent her my correct address and she quickly responded. The connection is back. 

In contrast there is someone I have written to a couple of times, and in the interim of waiting for an answer have let my imagination meander to shady places. 

"He is annoyed at me."

"He doesn't like my idea."

I think we would both be better served if I presumed good will. 

The event my friend and I were together for was in fact a memorial service for a mother who died too young. As if I get to decide such things. I sat two rows behind a young woman with a thick rope of red hair. Just like the person we were honoring that day. In the aisle of the church there was a young father who rocked his baby as if he were on a dance floor, cupping her soft head in his hand. I do not know his name, nor that of his daughter, but I felt a surge of endearment for them. Sometimes names and words are not the only couriers.

Perhaps the family of the woman who is gone will be listening for a message. A word of consolation written in the sky, a song that expresses her joy. Bright flowers in her garden. A grandchild laughing as if death has no strength. 

And just like that, the connection will be back.