Tonight, I must say farewell to someone special to me – Honora Jeffreys.
Honey was a friend, a fan, and a faithful believer. Well into her eighties, this darling lived a quiet life, retired from a career in civil service. An avid reader, the humble home in San Diego must not have held nearly enough bookshelves. I’d only visited her there a handful of times. But I remember it nestled under the shade trees, a sporty green Volkswagen Scirocco hidden alongside.
She didn’t post, tweet, or upload to Instagram.
Beautiful flowing cursive, with heartfelt narratives of her experiences, her family, and her faith. Ornate words carried her voice. The raw ink, her inflections.
I couldn’t help but write back, reverting to cowardly Times New Roman.
She put me up one night, while as a clueless teenage boy, I found myself wandering in SoCal. In the morning, I asked to use her ironing board.
“For your shirt?” she asked.
“No, for my Levi’s,” I replied.
She stifled a laugh, polite as she was.
“You’ll be the only person in California with a crease in their jeans.”
She took a long drag on her cigarette, and stared me down. I couldn’t tell if it was a grin or a grimace, but I figured she might know something I didn’t.