Loretta's Glasses

4/7/26

I dragged myself to the gym the other morning, feeling tired, a bit dull and listless.

At the co-housing community where I live, the gym faces west, with a sweeping mountain view just beyond the courtyard.

As I walked in, the weight room was calling me. Yet I found myself drifting toward the windows—some small act of conscious procrastination.

I glanced out into the courtyard and stopped.

There, just below, was the memorial shrine created for Loretta, a longtime member of our community who passed a few years ago.

Hanging from the stone structure were her glasses. So many pairs of them.

In an instant, the dull heaviness I’d been carrying dropped away by the stark reality:

I am still here.

She is not.

We lived in the same community for years, rarely crossing paths. It wasn’t until we both joined a small peer group of five women, that I came to know her.

We met to talk about our work: clients, challenges, the subtle and complex terrain of supporting others. Over time, the conversations deepened. We shared more of ourselves—sometimes the tender, unguarded places beneath the surface.

I grew to appreciate Loretta, and the way she was meeting the cancer in her body, with a kind of grace and quiet acceptance that stayed with me.

As her illness progressed, something in her became even clearer. She turned inward.

One sunny afternoon, I happened to see her walking slowly with another woman from the community. At first, I didn’t recognize her, her body so much thinner, more fragile. But then our eyes met.

Her blue eyes opened wide, filled with unmistakable joy. There was a light in her—steady, radiant, untouched by the condition of her body. It felt like being gently showered with love. 

We were both so happy to see each other.

When she died, the community held a large memorial. I had work scheduled and chose not to reschedule. At the time, it felt like the right decision.

Looking back, I wish I had been there.

These days, when I go to the gym, the intention is often simple…to feel life moving through me and energized in my body. To participate. To remember.

I don’t always arrive that way.

But sometimes, I’m reminded.

Like standing at that window, looking out at Loretta’s glasses swaying gently in the courtyard.

A quiet reminder of how fleeting this life is…and how precious.