Janet Bolles

Consider the marvel. Christmas Eve, circa 2008, at Heidi and Gary's beautiful flat in our beloved San Francisco. My wife Jo and son Jack and I brought along my mother, Rosemary, who was by then in her mid-seventies, and enduring the aftermath of a debilitating illness. Although distressed about being sick, she adored the entire Bolles' family and insisted on accompanying so she could spend some time with Jan. Within minutes of our entrance to the living room, all ablaze with holiday lights, and redolent of pine needles, egg nog, and Christmas cookies, my mom left us to sit alone in a high-backed chair next to the gorgeous holiday tree. At first she looked content, as if reminiscing about Christmases long gone, but then she took on the lonely look of those who can't quite recapture those long-ago memories.
Suddenly, as if hearing a distress call, Jan crossed the crowded room, noticing, I am certain, the look of loneliness in my mom's eyes. With her usual sense of gentle calm, Jan sat down in an empty chair next to my mom and without a moment's hesitation took my mom's trembling hands in hers. Tenderly, Jan began to caress them. It was a gesture of immense kindness and heartfelt compassion
As casually as possible, I drifted near them, so I might make out a few words of their conversation. I heard Jan telling my mom how pretty she looked and how happy she was that they were together again. Then she gushed, with no little pride, about how handsome their grandsons, Christian and Jack, had become.
Slowly, a warm glow came over their faces, the warmth of long friendship, the kind of respect that comes when people of a certain age realize they must stick together, if they are to survive the ravages of separation from the worlds they once knew. And more, it was a revelation of Jan's seemingly boundless concern for others.
That evening I believe I witnessed a rare form of love pass between Gary's mom and mine, as when one soul with a lived-in face—as the Irish describe the beauty of the elderly—recogni zes the lived-in quality of someone else's face. As my mom once confided to me, she was proud to say that every line in her face represented one of the stories that had made her life. I suspect Jan believed the same thing.
So many emotions rise to the surface when we recall the lives of our loved ones. I will never forget this singular moment because it was made possible by the simplest of gestures. Jan's kindness allowed her to reach out across the abyss of loneliness, which sometimes afflicts our friends and families, and create a bridge of love with an old friend.
All it took was a single, caring, tender touch.