Remember Sarah Bishop
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Isaac Kamola

The last time I saw Sarah she had just broken up with Joe. She was still smiling, although not quite as widely as usual. As I was leaving she explained to my lady-friend, Serena, whom she had just met for the first time, "You'll have to excuse me, I'm usually more resilient than this." Serena mentioned afterward that, given what Sarah had just gone through with Joe, that she had to be the most resilient person Serena had ever met.

I hope you are resilient in your grief.

PS—thank you for the Sarah pin. It hangs in my kitchen and serves as a bold challenge every day—to love more, to smile more, to cook more, and to celebrate more. She was a great person and lives on in so many of our lives.

Their Sarah

for my good friend Sarah Bishop
by Isaac Kamola

There once lived a good friend. Her name was Sarah—although sometimes her friends called her Mindy, or Dirty, or sometimes even Dirty Mindy.

She had a beautiful little house on a street with plenty of trees—some with apples, some with plums. The door on her house was too big, but always open. The kitchen was a bit too small—but that’s only because the stove was always full of cooking and her friends from throughout the city—some even from places like Iowa and Pakistan—were all there eating her chocolate cake, or her fried potatoes. Sometimes the house was so full there was no place to sit, so some people had to stand. At night, every nook and cranny was filled with people sleeping. And Sarah said good night to everyone and turned off the lights before climbing the stairs to brush her teeth. In the morning she went for coffee and those who had woken-up joined her. And everyone—even those who still slept—were happy. Even when it rained.

Then one morning a train came. It was a special train. It took her away without warning. The cheery-faced conductor was very kind and punched her ticket. “Many people will be missing you,” he said. “I know,” she said.

When her friends awoke they were sad that she was not there. Some went to coffee without her, one friend made breakfast for the others. They waited, and talked, and played funny games.

But when she was not home for supper, they worried, and fretted. Someone baked a cake. Another friend played his banjo.

Outside, the city made life noises. Across the street some children argued. A red-headed boy delivered the newspaper with a thud. Somewhere a train whistled and sped on and on. Outside the little house a passer-by smelled cake and flowers. She heard a banjo, and laughter, and people crying. She saw other people sleeping all in a pile. They were very, very sad—they loved their Sarah and she was gone. But she had left her friends some very good stories, and recipes, and comfortable places to sleep. Even though the friends cried, deep down—very, very deep down—they were happy because they had loved their Sarah, and she had loved them.

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