My car was due for a checkup at T&F World of Service in Lincoln at 8 a.m. this particular Wednesday, the day of Hilda’s leaving. Frank of T&F is one of my favorite people. He cares about the relationships with his customers and their vehicles, is generous, always available, well wishing. He is what I call a Bodhisattva — an enlightened being, here to help, serve, and leave all the vehicles and their owners in his care better than when he found them.

Because of Covid, I decided not to stay in the waiting room while the car was been serviced. Instead I walked around the back of the building on a thin sparkling layer of newly fallen snow which glittered as the sun rose through the bare trees. It felt, as I looked at the Sun as if it was looking at me, calling me, pulling me with a brilliant white circle of light, asking me to remember this moment, for some reason. Compelled to follow it through the glitter, with my softly crunching footsteps, I walked around and around, holding my hands clasped together on my low back as I circled the field, each circle returning me back to face the brilliant sun shining trough the other side of the wood, through the almost black bones of the leafless trees — insistent. The day was very cold, and yet I was comfortable — the sun felt warm to me.

The hour Frank promised it would take to service the car seemed to fly by. Just before returning inside to complete the payment and pick up the car, I received a text from a board member and resident, Sandy Creighton: “Emergency vehicles outside. Hilda?” I texted back that I was not at home, so had no information. When I arrived home, there were two police cars parked parallel to each other at Hilda’s garage. And walking past her door just inside, I noticed that her door was ajar. Then I knew she must have passed.

Earlier in the month, she had decided not to have open-heart surgery at 90 years old, especially when the surgeon was not confident that it would be bestow any quality of life for her. So, we (Natalie and I and others) chanted to each other “Come home, Hilda,” not sure what her decision would be.

From her hospital bed, on the phone, she asked me to dowse. I asked her what she had gotten when she dowsed, and she said it indicated that coming home, not surgery, was a “yes.” Then I admitted to her that I got the same reading. So she came home, and her much-loved son Colin was here to greet her.

She remained here, slouching more and more in her wheelchair, as he slowly pushed her around the building and outdoors as her body started to wind down. It was comforting to see her outdoors with him, in his solid care, resting in the chair. She had struggled so long to keep going on her own, weary and resistant to help, and now giving over.

Once, when Colin was walking her in the chair on a particularly balmy day, I raced outside to see her, dancing a little gig in front or her, saying “ Have I told you how wonderful it is to see you!” then I did it again, teasing her with the same question a few minutes later “Have I told you how glad I am to see you ?!” She and Colin laughed at my antics. I really just wanted her to know that I loved her, and was happy in that moment that I could make her laugh.

A early Hilda story: She was a master when it came to exotic plants like orchids. They bloomed readily for her on her kitchen window sill and I was envious. I called her the orchid whisperer and asked her to coach me, to keep my one and only orchid alive. When I went away on vacations, I would walk my plant down the hall to her and she would care for it while I was away, confident that it was in excellent hands So I wasn’t surprised upon returning from this particular trip to see it had grown a slender stalk with little buds on it. She didn’t say anything as she handed it to me. Hilda was magic.

I was thrilled and waited and watched eagerly to see when those little buds would unfold. A week went by, as I told myself to be patient, then another week, and I was really feeling like a failure. Then she called me. “Did it bloom yet?” she queried.

“No,” I moaned. “Am I doing something wrong?” She indicated that I should look closely at the stalk, which had held so much promise. I wondered what she meant but I peered at it.

“Is this fake?!” I yelled, pinching a waxy plastic spike. “You’ve known all along that it was a fake?!” I bellowed. She chuckled in her deep voice. “I was wondering when you’d notice.” After the surprise wore off, I so enjoyed that she had pulled this clever prank on me, much to the hilarity of family and friends.

There is a line from Dr. Seuss, that Hilda recently taught her young grandson Eliot, perhaps preparing him, “Don’t cry because it’s over; smile because it happened.”

I am trying to smile because it happened, not always successfully, but very much wanting to do what she is asking. When I can do it, I see a mosaic of beautiful moments with her — not without some hard moments that we needed to work through together, apologizing, asking for forgiveness, but in the end, keeping our friendship deep and vibrant. It felt to both of us that we’d always known each other, delighting in the mystery and timelessness of it all.