EARLY ON THE MORNING of Saturday, May 9, a close friend died of COVID-19. Her name was Fran Morrill Schlitt. She was eightyfour years old.
Fran contracted the virus at her assisted living facility in Boston, across from Symphony Hall. She died nearby at Beth Israel Hospital. I am in Austin, Texas, 1,700 miles away. I was not able to attend the small, brief funeral. I could not be there with her son, David, for the shiva, the seven days of mourning that are traditional in Jewish households. For that week, the community gathers around the bereaved to provide food, conversation, presence.
If I could have joined Fran’s community to memorialize her, I would have had a lot to say. Fran and her husband Jacob, who died in 2018, shaped the person I am now. They eased me into adulthood, with all its gravity and mundanity. Fran taught me how to use a dishwasher. She and Jacob taught me about the politics of our city and our nation. They weren’t didactic and didn’t play the know-it-all.