A sudden end, with much begun and just beginning

We blew it dry, and it frizzed. We soaked it with gel, and it frizzed. We plastered it with hair spray, and it frizzed. Frizz was our bond. As was a love of books, writing, and later, our grandchildren. And, of course, the gym. The gym was where we met.

I don’t remember meeting Anita. She was there since the beginning, some weekday afternoons, and every Saturday morning. Some Saturdays I would wake and think I’m not going today. Saturdays were meant for relaxing, at least a little.

And many Saturdays I didn’t go. But the times I did were because of Anita and Kathy and Fran, women who didn’t want to work out any more than I did, but who showed up because that’s what you do when you reach a certain age. You take care of your body. And you talk a little, sometimes a lot, while you’re doing it. Sometimes, you even make friends.

I knew Anita for 17 years. Hard to believe, but in all that time we never hung out outside the gym. We talked in the locker room. We talked on the stationary bikes. We talked doing sit-ups and leg presses. She taught school until a few years ago, and then she volunteered to teach English at the library, and then she went back to school because she wanted to learn how to write screenplays. She immersed herself in a program at Lesley University.

She was passionate about her writing, excited, dedicated, and a little scared, too. But determined.

Send me something, I begged early last winter, and she did, finally. She e-mailed me her assignment, a 10-minute play. I was so eager to read her words, to get a sense of her style. But the attachment wouldn’t open and though she said she’d resend, she forgot and I did, too.

When I remembered, she said, “I’m working on another one I’ll send when I finish.’’ That was that, because the next few months were full of talk about babies, the granddaughter she had, and a new baby, then two new babies, on the way. Both her son’s wife and her daughter were pregnant, and Anita was beaming.

I don’t know why death always takes us by surprise. We live in its trajectory. Any minute. Any day.

And still when it happens you always, always ask why.

She was in her 60s, but she looked 40-something. She was thin. She was fit. She didn’t have a line on her face, not because she had work done, but because she had great skin. She had energy and passion and such trust in the future. She had plays that were in her head and on her computer. She had a story she wanted to write about her son’s wedding, which she talked about for a long time. Until her granddaughter was born. Then the conversations were all about her.

The good times kept coming. Her daughter moved close to home. Her daughter got married. Her son’s wife was having another baby. And then her daughter got pregnant, too. All this, and the writing was going well. The stars were aligned. All was right in her world.

And then she got sick. Not really sick. She had allergies. That’s what we heard. Then we heard cancer. And then we heard treatment and recovery.

Anita Brennan died last Monday morning. She was working on a screenplay. She was awaiting the birth of two grandchildren. She was at the beginning of so many things.

I read recently that it doesn’t matter how long a star burns, what matters is the light that it shines. I wish I believed this. I wish that the memory of Anita bright and shining brought comfort and joy. It will someday, but it brings only sorrow now.

Sorrow for her husband and children and grandchildren, for her mother and father, and for her family and friends, because for now anyway, the world seems so dark without her.

Canton resident Beverly Beckham can be reached at bevbeckham@aol.com.