“Celebrate Nicole’s work anniversary,” LinkedIn reminded me.
But it’s too late.
I remember Nicole: loud, colorful, with a booming laugh and strong opinions on everything – from Mormons to jambalaya to whether moms of young daughters should remarry. (“I won’t!” she vowed. “Stepfathers can’t be trusted!”)
I think of her when I boil eggs the way she prescribed: a full rolling boil, turn off the heat, let the eggs sit docilely (enjoying their last moments together) for 15 minutes. Drown them in cold water, peel them, and do what you will.
She took charge. When she was a chef in Utah, her underlings competed to make her perfect Louisiana gumbo.
She did marry, an artist who adopted her child – and he is the prime mourner in her obituary. She died of cancer, still in her 30s.
I’m not a college professor who lectures to multitudes. Nicole was in my night class of 20 women, where we read short stories and learned about life from each other. Nicole spiced my life. And whenever I cook eggs, she’s part of the cherished recipe.
Well, I didn’t see that coming, Em. Wow.
Once again, nice work, Emily. In your first few seconds, I almost always chuckle or at least smile, and more often than not, by the 180th word, I’ve been moved, touched, or inspired.