New Year Tarts

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“I hate it Daniel, I hate it here! I hate everything. I still don’t know anyone. No-one likes me! I hate it! They keep to themselves. I don’t fit in!” I was mad because we moved to Canada and Daniel was expecting me to be loving this beautiful land when all I see is the glaring white snow everywhere and the chills in my bone that could never be warmed. He worked so much I hardly saw him, and I was too anxious to get out of the house I never met anyone. It had been four months and the house seemed to get larger and larger with the days, hollow with my contempt of this new life that left me alone. Echoes of my sobs kept me company in my solitude. Depression came strong and unforgiving, reminding me the world did not have space for me and I would never find comfort in anyone for my mere existence is folly.  “Just deal with it Amy, we’re here for a bit baby. It’ll be ok.” his lame attempt to comfort me. 

Doorbell rings. Over our shouting we didn’t hear it. Doorbell rings again.

Daniel answered as I peeked from behind him, over his shoulders. There stood an older lady perhaps in her 70s, with a windowed pastry box in her hand. She introduced herself to Daniel , “Liz Sikma” she said as her hand reached to rub my arm and her soft kind eyes looked into mine with love. “Welcome to the neighborhood,” she said. Daniel introduced us and gave a brief intro of our just moving here from Japan. She commented that she hadn’t known we’d been here the past four months as she didn’t see anyone out and about. She came over because she happened to see our lights on her evening walk so rushed home to grab a welcome gift for us. Her soft fingers still on my arm squeezed it in endearment, “Well, Happy New Year and Welcome to Canada.” She said with the kindest most beautiful smile I have never forgotten. “I live just down the street and you just come over if you need anything, anything at all. I’ll be here.” I believed her. After she left, a calmness wrapped me in love. Her simple doorstep welcome and quick chat and warm arm squeeze gave me so much I didn’t know I was looking for. She wasn’t very intent on imposing our acquaintance, it was a pure presentation of herself as a friend, one who would be there for me should I need her. I opened the pastry box to a dozen little new year cheese tarts, ones that were so loving and lovely I never found any that would do what it did for me in that second. ‘Liz Sikma’ and a phone number was scribed on a post-it attached on the inside of the box. Her love in that little box was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. 

Liz became a good friend and neighbor of ours, inspiring us of urban farming that she had going in her home in the middle of suburbia. She had chickens! Oh how wonderful, and a beautiful vegetable garden, we had our chickens when we moved to the suburbs of Kentucky and often thought fond thoughts of our sweet friendship with Liz Sikma. We would share meals and stories of her Dutch childhood and families as I listened and watch in her animation, her soft silver hair would occasionally blow onto her eye of which she’d give a quick flick followed by two more for good measure. 

I had a friendship with this 70 year old woman that welcomed me genuinely into her space, unwittingly as I was going through such hardship of health and isolation and pain and grief. She blessed me with her love as simply as she handed me a glass of water as she storied in her home. She would introduce us to her son and family of whom are one of our dearest friends for you could see Liz in their ways, in their kindness and generosity.

Kindness knows no bounds, except for the deteriorating mind that would steal my friend from me. In the times I left Canada, I would lose touch with her in all the happenings and busy makings of our life, and Liz would lose touch with our world retreating into her own. I miss her many days, but her love and cheese tarts I carry with me as lessons to repeat and pass on.

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