Dear Clotilde,

I feel like I knew you even though we never met. You died about one year before I met your daughter, Misha. Maybe wherever you are you already know all about her, but maybe you don’t and never will.

When I first saw her, Misha was a skinny 14-year old who always carried a stack of notebooks containing her journals and her poems. Although I didn’t usually teach freshman, I had one class that year and she was in it. After the first few days of classes, she showed up during my prep period and offered me one of her notebooks to read.

That’s how I found out that you had died of AIDS the year before, and that your husband had died of the same disease the year before that. This was the mid-90’s when an AIDS diagnosis was pretty much a death sentence. You were a nurse, so you must have known what to expect as your illness progressed. In spite of this awareness, you were a hero to your family and to anyone who knew your story. Little by little, I learned so much about you from Misha’s writing and our long talks. You made sure that your girls would stay together, in a home in a good neighborhood with friends and relatives to keep tabs on them. I don’t know all the details of their lives, but you somehow made sure they had enough.

You would have been so proud to see your oldest daughters when they came to parent conferences. They looked very serious and professional in their business-like clothes. The questions they asked sounded rehearsed, but it was clear that they loved and cared for their little sister and meant to fulfill the role of parents as best they could.

Clotilde, somewhere along the line I started feeling a really strong connection with you. I felt so sorry that you were missing watching your lovely daughters become fine young women; sorry that you missed high school and college graduations, weddings and births. You have seven grandchildren now. I was and still am in awe of what you did to prepare your daughters for their lives after your death.

All your girls are doing well, Clotilde. I know they miss you, but you did your best for them and they know it.

Your friend, age 67