On Pentecost Sunday in 2011, I played organ as usual at four Masses.  At the end of the day, the Archbishop was coming for two Confirmation Masses.  After the first one, there was a short break where food would be served in the rectory before returning to play the second one.  I had not used my phone for most of the day and when I opened Facebook on my old pink Blackberry, I received a message that caused my body to go cold. 

A friend informed me that one of my best friends from high school passed away unexpectedly two days earlier.  She was only 40 years old.  A beautiful woman, she was a wife and mother of two young children. 

The rest of the afternoon was a blur.  I might have eaten a couple of cold cuts and participated in some small talk in the rectory and went right back to the church to play the second Confirmation.  By the time I left, I had missed a call from one of Laura’s family members who called me to share the news.

To say I was in shock was an understatement.  By that time, my mother had already been gone for over a decade and my father was in the early stages of Parkinsons Disease and would pass in a few years, too.  While I’ve felt the absence of my parents who died at young ages, I still struggle with Laura being gone.

Laura was two years older and we met in chorus as proud strong altos.  We got close quickly during my sophomore year when our school hosted the District Chorus competition.  I was drawn to her big sister energy and her sharp intellect and mischievous laugh.  She was such a good person at her core and being around her made me want to curb my truck-driver language. 

A couple of weeks ago, I went into a bin in the garage to search for a specific photo from the Bicentennial in 1976. When I found the snapshot of my brother and me, dressed in period costumes – as a Flag Day baby, I was naturally Betsy Ross – I chuckled and kept on reminiscing. Around the ticket stubs and temp-job IDs and cards from old crushes, I burst into tears when I found a photo I haven’t seen in years.

This is always how I remember Laura.  Her curly hair that she styled while listening to one of her favorite works, the Brahms Requiem.  How she couldn’t find the exact right lipstick shade so she wore two colors and mixed them together.  She smiled easily and was always up to listen to music and drive by the houses of boys we liked. Well into adulthood, we’d get together at the piano with the so-called “Bag O’Music” we hauled between our houses, stuffed with books of cheesy love songs and music we smuggled from the music room of Bishop Hoban High School many years ago.

For some reason, she considered me the better pianist even though she was a more dedicated musician. I was usually tasked with accompanying our singing, taking turns singing alto.  We especially enjoyed playing from a duet book of 80s light rock, laughing our heads off every time we sang “Love lift us up where we belong…where the eagles cry…on a mountain high”.  I don’t think we ever made it to the end without collapsing in laughter at how ridiculous the song was.  Which is also what made us to return to it for years on end.    

Laura and I had a bond that is indescribable with our love of music at its foundation.  The pain of loss is so deeply felt when I think of Laura.  (And yes, playing “Think of Laura” by Christopher Cross is something I still do often at this time of year when I observe her passing.)  I think so much about who she would be now as a 50-something year old woman. 

Our time knowing each other will always be much too short.  I cling to every memory we shared together.  Every song we sang and every secret we shared.  Laura will always be one of the very best friends I’ve ever had and while I still miss her deeply, I feel so grateful to have had her in my life.