MARYANN
by Robin Shwedo
©: Robin Shwedo, 2000
I
High school friends,
we were always just a little different
from the crowd.
You were too straight-laced and shy,
hiding in your Catholic girl-school uniform,
not sure if you should
be a nun (too shy for boys, and your love of God)
or go to college to be a librarian
(at least you loved books, too),
me, loud and outrageous,
trapped in an identical uniform,
complaining we had to remain "uniformed"
on "do-your-own-thing" day
(stating, "Right – do your own thing,
but do it my way",
to which you laughed the loudest and
longest).
An unlikely pair, we were,
but locked together in friendship
brought first together by mutual,
if opposite,
"differences" from the crowd.
II
I'm driving home,
watching an incredible sunrise,
while trying to catch up with your bus
before I'm stuck getting off the
"correct" interstate exit,
the last one before the bridge.
I see the bus rounding the
long
sloping curve up ahead,
try to catch up,
but can't –
here's the exit –
you're gone.
You called two weeks ago.
"Is it still okay to visit?"
"Yes, yes," I cry, "please come."
Eighteen years is too, too long to be apart
from friends.
We wrote faithfully for several years –
you telling of college life
(library life suited you),
me telling of various men,
here today,
gone tomorrow,
then marriage to a man
who never quite understood
women's friendship,
a connection from the past
of those "who knew us when",
especially when we were so different.
I loved your quiet,
a calm balm for my spirit,
you loved my outrageousness,
saying it "kickstarted" your laughter.
You flew down,
arriving at our little
nickel-and-dime airport
rather than opting for the bigger one
in the next town.
A pleasant week,
the only problem being when my
car died for two days;
we spent time shuttling
back and forth
by cab
to "rescue" my car
with cash.
Thursday,
we drive into town
for your bus ticket
so you can afford Disney World
before flying back home.
The sights and sounds of the city
delight and excite us;
we are 5 years old
and 105
simultaneously,
talking fast
of "what ifs"
and "remember whens".
Friday,
I'm up at four,
take a fast shower,
then pick you up by 4:30
to take you to the bus terminal
by five.
We sit in silence,
occasionally
commenting on
how short the trip was
how good to see each other,
we mustn't let eighteen years pass by
without a visit.
Then, bus call,
you're on,
and I zap across the street for gas
so I can caravan with you
to my exit.
Darned bus, though,
pulls out while
I'm inside paying
and it takes until my exit
to even pull close.
The sunrise is beautiful.
Did you notice?
III
You visit again.
The two years since your last one went fast.
This time, you chose the big airport.
My car having died,
you're stuck taking a cab here.
This becomes our joke;
car dead? Maryann's on her way for a visit.
You state this happened
while visiting your sister in Missouri, too.
You rent a car for the week,
and let me use it to find a job
after having safely deposited you
at a local tourist park
I couldn't afford but
insisted you see,
since I knew you'd enjoy it.
You did,
your childlike excitement evident
when I picked you up later that day.
We enjoyed the stay.
The last day, we thought maybe
that stress was getting to me,
having to explain for the zillionth time
to the other half
of a dying marriage
about women
and friendship,
and having company.
You take a cab back to Tampa International,
and I take the rental back to
the smaller one,
then catch a ride home.
The next morning,
I call you for two reasons:
how was the flight home,
and the headache wasn't stress –
I'm sick as a dog.
But thank goodness the trip was nice.
IV
Time flies.
We write with news of our mutual lives.
Your brother got a new kidney.
My other half got a new love.
Your brother died.
So did my marriage.
You obtained new books for the library.
I obtained the courage to go back to school.
Then, no word for months.
Finally, I reach you by phone,
after trying for months.
You've been hospitalized,
your brother's death taking tolls
in more ways than just his own.
I talk you through,
encouraging you to take a
small step at a time.
"You will recover," I promise.
"I did."
Things got better, for a while.
Then, nothing.
I've heard no replies to my letters,
no answer on the phone
for over six months.
I'm worried for you.
I hope you're okay.
This was written sometime between the late 1990s-2002 and is part of a book of poetry titled Poetry, Unassigned currently looking for a publisher.
The poem is about my high school friend, Maryann. We'd both felt like out-casts while going to an all-girls Catholic high school in the northeast corner of Connecticut - although during our sophomore year, boys were allowed in. Maryann and I kept in touch for years, writing faithfully, occasionally calling, and then with Maryann - who was still single - visiting a couple of times.
Slowly, the letters stopped, and while I tried writing, there was a gap of several years with no word from her. Finally, I received one letter around 2000 - 2002, which was sadly disjointed in places; I could tell she'd been depressed while writing it. A Christmas or two later, the card I sent was returned, with the postal stamp stating, "Undeliverable; no forwarding address." I still miss hearing from Maryann, and hope that all is well.
A photo of Maryann is on my photography blog, A Year (Or More) Of Photos, taken during one of her trips here. Maryann
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