There's a wonderful man in my pottery class. Any man that spends more than five hours a week with a studio full of women must have something special within his heart. These women talk about everything from hot flashes to arguments with their husbands to nude cruises. And this man listens quietly, laughs occasionally, and always lends an ear and a hug when someone is in need.
He's also talented - he can take a lump of clay and turn it into a functional casserole dish within 15 minutes. And his work has that manly touch - he's not into delicate details or flourishes. For potluck he brings one of three phenomenal dishes - a chocolate cake that's more like fudge, firehouse meatballs from his firefighter days, or fruit salad. He invites his wife to every potluck, and never says or does anything even approaching inappropriate.
I find him refreshing, as do all of them women in my class. We adore him.
A few months ago he walked into class late, which is unusual. His eyes seemed a little puffy to me. He said his sister, Sissy, was sick. Come to find out, Sissy was very sick. Leukemia. She's younger than him, and his closest sibling, from what I understand.
They sent her to Duke. And that's never a good sign. I think we all, including him, knew it was only a matter of time. He and Sissy's husband took her to Duke and subsequent treatments locally. She met her newborn grandson. But several weeks ago she entered the hospital, and stopped eating.
I asked him each week how Sissy was doing. "Not good. But her spirits are good."
I skipped this last session of pottery class because of the holidays. My friend's sister died the next week. And I didn't know. I didn't know in time to attend the funeral like I had planned. And now I just don't know what to say. I'll call my teacher and get his number, and dial the phone. And then I'll probably begin to cry.
And it's not just crying for him, but for my fear of losing my sister.
I'm pretty sure my sister is the missing link to my DNA. She's got the street smarts, common sense and can read people. She can also add and subtract without using her fingers. All of these things evade me like a seasoned common criminal.
She's a second mother to my child, and I love her daughter like she's my own. I know it's clique, but my sister truly is beautiful inside and out, and is an inspiration. The only reason I know I could survive if something happened to either of my parents is because of my sister.
I'm relying on her to help me through life. And to do that, she needs to be here. Basically I'm praying that she outlives me. If something happened to her, I don't know how I would get through it.
So, when I call my dear friend tonight, I'm sure that lump in my throat will be about my sweet sister almost as much as it is about him.
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