117. Self-portrait, Cleveland Clinic, January 28, 1977, 4:57 a.m.

GRETE WASHINGTON: When Lillian left Brooklyn, she was so very ill that saying goodbye felt like the final farewell, but then came her letter to say that the treatment in Detroit was a success. What began as a small piece of hope grew larger, until I did not see its edges anymore. Lillian’s return to health did not bring our friendship back to what it once was. Even I, who do not like letting go, knew that this could not come back, but we exchanged letters. I wrote when Paul took Kaja to Liberia, and also when Kaja was accepted to university in Britain. Lillian wrote when Jane went to California and again when Walter died. Our friendship was paler but a friendship still. Then Deborah’s phone call came. When Jane was not at the funeral, I cried for them both.

After the service, Deborah and I did not bother with introductions, though meeting face-to-face felt quite strange. Hers were eyes I did not know, and yet I knew so much about the person behind them. I thought of a knot joining two threads, and of the way a vibration will travel from one thread to the other, passing through the knot along the way. Now the knot that had joined Deborah to me was gone.

I asked Deborah if Lillian had been in much pain. She told me that Lillian had died according to her wishes. When Deborah explained about the camera, I laughed, and this made Deborah laugh also. Others near us were puzzled by this, but I could see it bothered Deborah as little as it bothered me. Good for Lillian, I said. I think it was good for Lilly, Deborah answered, even though it was very hard. She was always strong, I said. And stubborn, Deborah agreed as she smiled. So many stories were contained in that smile, stories we could share just by this curve we made with our mouths.

Usually, when I speak to Lillian in my mind, it is to tell her about Kaja: about the man she met at King’s College whose parents came to Britain from Jamaica after the war; about the children she has had with him and my trips to England to see them; about my recognition that Kaja, like me, has made a home as far away from her parents as she could. Lillian’s answers in my mind do not include her voice. I cannot hear her voice anymore, but her eyes remain. Even when we disagreed, Lillian’s eyes stayed on my face, as if to remind me that our friendship would always have a place in this world.

118. Self-portrait, Cleveland Clinic, January 28, 1977, 5:04 a.m.