 French la Vie 
For those of you who’ve read my blog over the years, you know Annie. You know she was one of the dearest friends of my life. She was a presence so full of grace, warmth, and spirit, that her memory is etched into my heart. She was a friend to my entire family. She was family.
There are days that pass quietly, and then there are days that unfold with such spark, they leave you beaming.
Yesterday was one of those days.
After the recital ended, I made my way over to Olivia’s best friend—we’ll call her Mary—to tell hello. Her parents, who I do not know, were standing beside her. We exchanged some warm words and smiles. A moment, one I thought was just another part of the day.
But life had something more in store.
Later that afternoon, after school, Mary’s father approached my daughter, Chelsea. He said, thoughtfully, “Your mom has an accent. And I couldn’t help but think—how many women of a certain age with an accent live in this town?”
Chelsea agreed, “My mom is American.”
He nodded knowing he had figured it out, “My grandmother was Annie.”
Chelsea couldn’t believe her ears!
Of all coincidences—Annie’s great-granddaughter is Olivia’s best friend.
As Chelsea told me, I could feel the air around me shift. I felt Annie by my side.
I believe in connections we cannot see. In the quiet, stunning ways love endures and finds us again.
Two new friends, two old friends.
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