Like a concerned parent, K. provided me with a handwritten note to show the bus driver. She had arranged for me to attend the party of her friend, a Japanese artist, during my stay in her Kyoto home, decades ago.

Upon my arrival, I met S., also a friend of the artist. Her English was perfect. Her wide smile, curiosity, intelligence, warmth, infectious laugh, and her bold exclamations enthralled me. We instantly became friends. She showed me Kyoto, took me to her home and that of her parents. She taught me how to apply the bright red lipstick that I had admired on her never still lips.

Years later, S. and her husband stayed with me in NYC. We talked incessantly, toured the town, and tried to stifle our amusement when her husband moved awkwardly from his first sunburn.
But somehow time, distractions, responsibilities, and distance took their toll. I lost touch, if not the memories of our friendship and her smile.

Last night, I dined with a mutual friend T. We too had shared wonderful times. We too, until now, had let that connecting cloth unravel. A wave of nostalgia had prompted me to seek S. and T. out a week before.

T. assumed I already knew. I didn’t.

The past two years S. had been tormented with debilitating depression.

Her extraordinary, beautiful, vivacious spirit could not, did not, save her.