remembering our friend

“The shortest distance between truth and a human being is a story”
-Anthony de Mello

The first time I met Kim Ricketts, she opened her arms wide, shouted Hello! in a squeaky rasp, and gave me an enormous hug.

I nearly cried.

It was the fall of 2007, a few weeks before my first book would be published. Everything was possibilities and anxieties, excitement and fears about whether or not I could write a sentence anyone could like. Who was I to think I could write a book? Standing near to my friend Matthew, since I didn’t know anyone else at Kat Flinn’s book party, I could feel myself withering into my sixteen-year-old self. All that doubt.

And then there was Kim. For the past year I had been hearing about Kim Ricketts and the splendid events she threw in honor of cookbook authors and interesting thinkers in restaurants and event spaces across Seattle. When Thomas Keller or Mario Batali or Amanda Hesser came to Seattle to promote a book, they worked with Kim. The imagining of her had been a dream for me. Someday, maybe, I’ll be part of a Kim Ricketts event. I had never met her. Until that moment.

She threw open her arms wide and shouted my name. Kim had the most distinctive voice of anyone I’ve ever met: raspy as though she had smoked a thousand cigarettes since Thursday (she didn’t smoke), excited with life, and with a little breathy squeak when she started talking fast. When she shouted my name, she grabbed my attention. When she introduced herself, I did a double take. And then she gave me that hug. “I love your blog, I love your food. I’m gluten-free too. And your book is going to be a HUGE success.”

That moment is when I relaxed, when I knew I’d be okay: this life-long dream of mine to be a writer? I was going to be fine.

And Kim Ricketts became my friend.

There are a thousand friends of Kim Ricketts, if not more. This woman, this force of nature, she gathered people around her like friends around a bonfire. She was light and warmth and a little crackle, something unexpected. Kim loved. She loved books with a fervent passion like no one else — always she was surrounded by piles of books to read, bookmarks in the ones she had started, dog-eared pages in the ones she handed over to friends saying, “Read. You’re not going to believe this one.” One of her greatest missions in life was to persuade people to buy books: cookbooks, collections of poetry, sharp-tongued works of fiction that made your head spin with their innovations. You can read about her professional career here, if you want to know more.

However, Kim loved far more than her work.

Kim loved people. She loved connecting them, making them feel good in the middle of a room, picking them up for a ride to work when their cars weren’t working or bringing by a jar of homemade jam when you were feeling down. When I had a surgery last year, to look at the atypical cells a biopsy found, Kim raced to the hospital to bring armfuls of books for Lu and magazines for Danny. She knew waiting rooms. She was the busiest person I have ever met, always behind on emails and working until 12:30 in the morning, but she still made time for her people. And there were more people every day. If you met Kim, and shared one of those big-hearted, too-loud laughs with her, you were her friend. Done.

Kim piled people into her Jeep, all the windows open, the seats filled with friends, pies, fruit ready to be made into jams. Music playing, she drove fast (and we loved when that drive was to our house for a spontaneous picnic or a canning party) and talked. Conversations with Kim were like bullet-train rides, but ones where the train swayed from side to side on the track, diverting to another path for awhile, feeling lost, then coming into the station. She was blunt — this woman held nothing in when she needed to say it — and her comments weren’t always sweetness and light. Thank god. I remember one conversation with her a couple of months ago after an event at a Seattle restaurant that had gone wrong due to the huge ego of the hosting chef. Her vituperation for his stupid posturing was pretty intense, but it all sounded right. Also, it was hilarious. Kim cracked us up when she went on benders of conversations. We just stood to the side, listening, amazed.

Kim loved food. After all, her events were centered around food. But she was nothing like a food snob. Instead, she liked the gathering, the feast, the conversation. She was just jazzed to be around smart, passionate people coming up with ideas while eating. I’m pretty sure that Kim was happiest in the world when she was in the kitchen, apron on, making a roast chicken or a salad from lettuces she had grown in her garden, cooking dinner for her family.

Kim loved her family. She had an incredible career, doing important work, connected to everyone in the food world. But, as she told me, so many times, her favorite job of all, far beyond any other, was being a mama. She loved her darling children ferociously. Her three children are no longer children — all in their 20s now, incredible people all. But she never stopped loving them ferociously or caring for them in every action. She was, above all, a mama bear. After Lu was born, Kim was my mentor in parenting. She helped save my sanity when Lu didn’t sleep for more than an hour at a time, months after her surgery, by telling me about the sleepless antics of her son. “He would start out reading in his bed and then, 20 minutes later come into my room, peel my eyes open and SO EXCITED–wants to show me everything he was reading about. How could you be mad? just so….tired.” She gave me suggestions, listened intently, and offered me reminders that this would all change, in the end. Fierce, alive, funny — she was real to every part of it, reveling.

When Lu had her surgery, and we were drooped with dread, Kim organized friends to bring us food for every meal. When she came, she regaled us with stories in the ICU while Lu slept. (She told us that one of the world’s best chefs, whose name shall remain unspoken here, liked nothing better in Seattle than to go for a late-night burger at Dick’s.) She brought us enough food for a week and a carton of blood orange juice. That little touch — that was Kim. Not just orange juice, but the carton of blood orange juice too expensive to buy on a regular basis. She wanted nothing more than to give us comfort, something to wake us up.

After we were home from the hospital, Lu healing, I sent an email to Kim first, to let her know that all was well. She wrote me: “Okay, I can sleep now. seriously. what is it about little ones that hurt that keeps me up, thinking, praying, hoping? but she is going to be fine–I always “knew” it but still, I get to see her and then it will all be fine.”

Kim loved Lu. She lavished her with books, including the entire series of the Bunny Planet books by Rosemary Wells, which were dear to her. (First Tomato continues to be one of my favorite books of all time.) Kim brought Lu jack in the boxes, cooed over her darling giggles, and wanted to hear the details of her growing up on email. She wrote to me, after I told her that Lu just never stops moving: “She is such a Busy Curious Courageous Little Bee–but those are the people that move our world forward.”

I am heartbroken that Lucy will never remember Kim.

Kim died on Monday. She was only 53.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

I haven’t seen her in months, but not for lack of trying. Kim was too sick to see many people besides her family. A few weeks ago, we were by her home, and I sent her a quick note, asking if we could stop by. She had been in and out of the hospital for months. If she was there, I wanted to give her a hug. Later, she sent me this note:

“oh dear–I was up resting… when you sent this!
but soon my dear ones soon

I never did get to see her after that.

Kim suffered for the past year with a rare blood cancer and something called primary amyloidosis. I don’t understand it. I don’t understand any of this. I just know that if she was suffering, I’m happy she’s out of that suffering now.

Kim had her fair share of suffering these last couple of years. Her youngest daughter was diagnosed with leukemia at 20. Kim’s community pulled together and delivered food — what else can we do? — and talked and wrote together. Her daughter is doing fine now, thankfully, but everything weighed heavy on Kim for quite awhile. She knew she could no longer keep her daughter safe in the world.

I’ve been thinking for days about this email Kim sent me after her daughter was declared well. It has, somehow, been a solace to me now:

“I need to worry less about the next horrible thing that may happen and instead, be happy on a Friday night and go to the movie with my daughter and just be with her while I can. I know, consciously, that no planning or looking up leukemia on the internet or reading books about new treatments will really help–instead I should find a way to be clearly happy in the moments that are real and here and now. Its hard sometimes–she is just 20 after all and heavily into the eye-rolling when I talk, etc–but that is part of who she is right now too…and I have to find a way to remind myself that it is in the sitting down together at dinner and the walking the neighbor’s dog with her, etc that life is lived–not in the plans and worrying and trying so hard–it won’t save you anyway.”

It won’t save you anyway.

* * *

I don’t know what to write about death. I have no idea.

And I know damn well that I am writing at such great length about Kim because somehow she’s close to me now through these stories. And I know that I wasn’t nearly as close with Kim as many other people in her life.

But that’s the thing about Kim — and I’ll never use the past tense here — she loves people. She touches everyone who met her, even if only for five minutes. She makes you want to be alive, more fully, and laugh louder and throw out any pretenses or fears and just dig in.

Kim, I’m going to live and love even more ferociously because of you now.

A couple of weeks ago, my parenting mentor sent me this poem, which her oldest daughter had sent to her. Somehow, this is Kim too:

various ways i have saved the day for my nearly three year old daughter, Chad Perman
trips to the library
funny stories about people she knows
singing made up songs about mickey mouse, set to the tune
of songs i knew from a previous, younger life
playing our guitars together – hers is small, plastic and red,
it still sounds fantastic, crazy notes and all.

checking inside of closets and drawers, behind doors
and underneath beds
to assure her that it’s okay to fall asleep
telling her that the world is a good place
and willing her to believe it, at least a little longer.

candy, of course
and sometimes TV (I make no claims to being perfect)
but also milk, water, apple juice,
hummus, crackers, cheese
and books
endless lines of books and books
and books.

going over the names of her relatives
the ones in Seattle, in Miami, and everywhere else
reviewing their birthdays, in chronological order
setting out her favorite pink sparkly ballet shoes where she can see them
so that she knows, always, that they are an option
to go along with her self-selected ensembles and
various accessories that, according to Olivia the pig,
are really quite vital.
telling her that her mommy and I love her more than anything
in the entire universe, but also
giving her space, no matter how hard that is,
so that she can try to figure out the world.

I don’t have a recipe for you today. Danny and I were going to cook up something delicious, say that we wished we could have shared it with Kim, and encouraged you to cook.

But you know what? I can’t.

Instead, I know what I’m going to do. I’m going to finish typing and let go of this. I’m going to sit talking with Danny, probably cry, and he’ll hold me. Then, we’ll bounce around the room when Lu wakes up, reading her books, painting with watercolors, laughing as we attempt to plant a garden on this freezing-cold day. Tonight, we’ll have friends over for dinner. We’ll feed them some of the dishes we have been working on for our new cookbook. We’ll laugh together and make plans for the weekend and watch our daughters play together.

And all the while, I’ll be thinking of this email Kim sent me a few months ago:

thank you for offering your home, your island and your friendship…especially to those of us that need reminding, amidst it all, that time with people we love is really all that matters.

53 comments on “remembering our friend

  1. Jennifer

    I know this will be of no comfort whatsoever but someone told me something once, after a friend of mine died from a stroke at the age of 29, 4 days after her wedding, that losing a friend is like looking into a bright light. It’s unbearably painful at first but slowly the pain fades and what you are left with is the light. But it’s not that the pain fades, it’s more that you adjust to live with it. I know it is awfully trite but I do understand the pain you are in and you will survive. I did, and it took some time to learn to deal with the pain and the guilt, the guilt of surviving, of not seeing them as much as you could. So talk about her and write about her as the most fitting memorial for someone so full of life as your friend Kim seems to have been, is to talk about her. Make her live for all the people who never had the chance to meet her, for your daughter. We can’t live forever, but people’s memories of us can.
    So live and love and talk about her as that way Kim can live forever.

    1. Christine

      Oh Jennifer, this was just beautiful.

      Shauna, I am so very sorry for your loss. I’ll be thinking of you, your family and Kim and hers and sending good wishes to you all.


  2. Penny

    Kim sounds like a wonderful sweetheart who will be missed by many. Thank you for sharing her with us. Sending cyber-hugs across the miles in sympathy.

  3. Harriet

    Tears for you, tears for everyone who knew Kim (even though I didn’t). But no tears for Kim. From what you say, I think she wouldn’t want tears, but celebration. Still, tears need to be shed. My heart hurts for you and Danny and Lu.

  4. Ana

    Such a beautiful post and tribute to your friend. You did such an amazing job conveying the kind of person she was – made me wish I’d known her. My heart breaks for her family and friends during this difficult time. I pray for peace and comfort for all of you.

  5. Megan

    What a wonderful rememberance of an amazing person. That was really powerful and I couldn’t stop reading (instead of working… oops!). I didn’t know her, but I feel like I do after what you wrote. There are not enough amazing people like that in the world!
    Thanks for sharing, though I know you are deeply hurt by this loss.

  6. Kimberly

    Wow Shauna, my heart is breaking for you, and for those who knew her and have had to say goodbye. I am sure that this is incredibly difficult, but at the same time, what a blessing you were given, knowing her as you did. While her loss may be felt so strongly for a while, her legacy will go on forever.
    Thank you for this beautiful tribute,

  7. rebecca

    Your friend’s life has touched mine- and I never got to know her. I needed to be reminded to live in the moment more & worry less about… my kids, keeping the house picked up, or if I’m making a balanced dinner for my family! Thanks for sharing the the sweet spirit of Kim with us!

  8. Jean Layton

    Losing a friend, so young,
    DAMN IT!
    Can we wish that Death can take a holiday?
    Rage, Rage, that is how I feel when someone so special is taken.
    That anger makes me truly appreciate the time we have with friends like you and Danny and Lu.
    I wish I had been able to actually meet Kim. She friended me on Facebook and let me join her circle of love.

  9. Julia Sarver @ Glow Health

    I am so sorry for your loss, Shauna. It seems that life will never be fair, so the best we can do is hold our loved ones close each day, and to take time to enjoy the beautiful gift of life. My heart goes out to you, your family, and everyone who was touched by Kim.

  10. Nina

    Kim lives on through you, and the others who were touched by her love, warmth and enthusiasm. It makes me mad to read (in the paper) that she died of a rare blood disease- Multiple Myeloma. Twenty-five years ago my mom died of the same disease at the same age as Kim. Judy’s dad died of it, and so did Booth’s dad. Multiple Myeloma needs to be “outed.” It’s not so rare… and it needs some attention and research because it is a death sentence at this point and we don’t just want to read about these people in the past tense. We want them to be here with us to keep telling their stories and sharing their love. I know Kim had an additional illness. My mom had no health insurance so they used her as a guinea pig trying out experimental meds which weakened her, and ultimately she died of heart failure. My father-in-law had great insurance, but again there currently is no cure for Multiple Myeloma. We need to bring it to light and get some attention for it, so it’s not too late for others. I share your grieving Shauna- and cherish your friendship no matter what. Thanks for this heartfelt post. I’m so glad I got to watch you go through the whole publishing and marriage and mama process. You are a wonder.

    1. Coach Laura

      Everyone reading this site should be aware of a link between multiple myeloma and celiac disease (or gluten intolerance). There are some medical researchers that have published but since MM is rare (but not rare enough, unfortunately) and celiac is also somewhat rare (though not as rare as we are lead to believe) there isn’t enough of an overlap for a large scale study. Here’s a quote: “As the serum antigliadin immunoreactivity is present in patients with gluten intolerance, celiac disease, it could be of importance to elucidate is the multiple myeloma more severe form of gluten intolerance than celiac disease.” Article:

      As a celiac and a spouse of a 53 year old with (thankfully indolent) multiple myeloma, I am trying to get the word out. Another reason to go gluten-free if you are celiac or have any inkling of gluten-intolerance or a family history of multiple myeloma or primary amyloidosis, which if I remember correctly is related to multiple myeloma.

      And I wonder how many cases of multiple myeloma could have been prevented by going gluten free. Sad. Very sad. Nice memorial, Shauna.

      1. Tracy haughton

        Thank you for pointing this out. And blessings on your work. This kind of information is so important for people to understand–especially anyone who thinks eating gluten free is a ” lifestyle choice”. Shauna, I am so sorry for the loss of your friend. I read her obituary; what an inspiring life.

    2. Katy

      I am a medical technologist who sees multiple myeloma on an almost daily basis (I do oncology testing) and am surprised to hear it’s so rarely talked about, it’s so common to me. I hope the word gets out about these things you both have mentioned. I will have to look more into the link between myeloma and celiac disease. There are treatments for MM, but there is no cure that I know of (aside from maybe bone marrow transplantation) and that sucks. Cancer is devastating and takes friends and loved ones before their time. I want to work toward a world where my job is no longer needed because there is NO MORE CANCER.
      Shauna, what a beautifully written tribute to your friend – we grieve your loss with you.

  11. JenG

    Shauna, rest assured that Lu will know Kim, even if she may not have first-person memories. She will hear your stories over the years to come, know that you are sad now, and read your lovely, heart-wrenching words. Kim left an indelible mark in your life that will be passed on, not only to your beautiful daughter, but to each person you meet, because she made such a profound impact on your soul, and helped guide you to becoming who you are today.

    May each day that comes bring you peace and fond memories.

  12. michael brown

    Wow, what an amazing post about an amazing woman. I have known Kim since college, floating in and out of her life as children, work etc intersected. For a time we were only a few short blocks away from each other and would see each other at school events and such. But you know, being in the food industry (okay wine) I know of her work and the profound effect it had on those who were passionate about food and who needed an advocate to spread their writings. For that she was a giant, and will be remembered. All I know is that she always asked about my children and what they were up to. She had her priorities straight.

    So Kim, tonight we will raise a glass of premier cru burgundy in your honor. We will all have to pull a little harder on our traces to keep the world spinning just so…

  13. April

    Wow. There are truly no words to say except: I’m so sorry. 🙁 She sounds truly wonderful and everything anyone could ask for in a friend, an encourager, a light-bearer along the way. I wish I could give you a hug – a virtual one is all I can offer. Big hugs for you and everyone touched by her life.

  14. Monica

    I’m so,so very sorry for your loss.

    If, when I leave this world, I’ve touched one person even half as much as Kim touched everyone she met, I’ll have lived a life to be proud of.

    Thank you for sharing her with us.

  15. Lourdes

    What a beautiful tribute to a beautiful woman, from another beautiful woman. However, Lucy will remember Kim, through your memories and your stories and your love for her. I know that’s not enough to console us when those we love are taken from us, but it’s something. xoxoxo


  16. June

    It sounds so strange to say I’m sorry, but I am sad for you and yours. As I read your tribute, it inspired me to be better, to love more, to cherish all. This is the best gift you could have communicated and a valuable treasure. Hugs.

  17. Marianne Adler

    I’ve never met you, Shauna and Danny, but I wish I could wrap you up in a big hug right now. We lost a friend last year to a pulmonary embolism, at 33. One day she was there, the next she was gone. 13 months later, what I can share with you is this – I don’t think there is really understanding. There is talking, crying, laughing, sharing memories with one another, and slowly, slowly, there can be peace with what happened, but I really don’t think there is understanding. My wish for you is that peace.

  18. bethany

    I read this a few hours ago, but realized I was still thinking about it, still feeling gratitude for the true friends in my life… so I just wanted to come back and say “thank you”.

  19. Janel

    The only word that comes to mind for me is “Sterkte”, a word I learned while living in Holland, that people say to offer someone the strength to persevere whatever hardship (usually loss or grief) they are experiencing. It offers more than just sympathy when you say it. I feel like it is a way to say “I feel your pain, too.”

    The poem is simply wonderful. I have two young girls, both under the age of 5, and it captures that age so perfectly.

    My Mom and a close girlfriend have both recently been diagnosed with cancer. It has certainly made me worry less about little things like tidying up the house on a Saturday like clockwork and instead I spend more time doing things like coloring with my girls or cooking with them or my husband and I taking them to the park to feed the ducks.

    Life is preciously short. Tim McGraw has a song called “Live Like You Were Dying”. I’ve been playing it a lot lately. My favorite lines are:

    “…And I loved deeper and I spoke sweeter,
    And I gave forgiveness I’d been denying.”
    And he said: “Some day, I hope you get the chance,
    “To live like you were dying.”

    Sterke, Shauna, to you and all of the people lucky enough to have known Kim!

  20. Mark

    I am so very sorry for your loss, This was such a beautiful story, it really touched my Heart,,
    Kim seem like such an Angel….God bless you .

  21. Sholeh

    Tell Lu stories about Kim. Talk about her like she is still here. I love people that I have never met, simply because of the love my parents had for them. Lu will remember her.

    1. Amanda

      I agree with Sholeh, I tell my friends (and I’ll eventually tell my kids) stories of my parents friends who died before I was born. People who touch you this profoundly never truly leave. Take heart in that she lives on through those of you who love her.

  22. Kathy Tagudin

    I am soo sorry for your loss. As I learned when my friend Sandy died,

    We’re all dying…
    that’s why it’s so important
    to remember
    how to live.

    Thank you for sharing your heart with us and for the gentle reminder.
    Love to you …

  23. Kate

    Today I am going to make a meal for some people in need and share it with them in honor of Kim. I’m going to donate money again to help victims of natural disasters in the American South, Japan, Haiti, and Pakistan in an effort to extend fellowship and a circle of warmth like your dear friend. I’m going to bake something warm and comforting, and gluten-free, for my 8 year old brother, and share with him stories of our grandmother, a wonderful baker who died when he was 3. I’m not going to save the world today, just add a little love to a community, and I want to thank you for doing the same thing day in and out with your blog.

  24. Rennae

    Shauna, thank you for allowing us to share in your pain. Losing anyone who has touched your life like that is difficult. The first anniversary of my 21 year old son’s death is coming up Memorial weekend. It finally hit me about October and then I lost over 20 lbs. that I really couldn’t spare it.
    I connected with what you said ~ I just can’t. I just can’t make his favorite dish. I just can’t cook like I used to. I just can’t do alot of things – yet. As Kim said “instead I should find a way to be clearly happy in the moments that are real and here and now.” I’m searching/trying. I know in time, I will and I appreciate the understanding of those around me. Thank you for sharing Kim with so many and for inspiring me. “Love More” has been my saying for the past 11 months. Quite simple. I’m going to add Kim’s passion you have shared and Love More Ferociously.

  25. Pseu Sue

    Yesterday, in the dark hours of the morning, I too lost a friend. He was young and loved life and people and laughter, and when you were in the room with him, you could not help but feel all those things too. He died of complications from Spinal Meningitis. None of us were ready, but I don’t know what would have made us ready. Thank you for this. It helps a bit.

  26. Lindsey K

    Dear Shauna,
    I’m a new reader to your blog after my acupuncturist suggest a gluten free diet for me, an avid baker. Nothing I could possibly say could take away your pain, but I, along with Jennifer who posted earlier, understand. My childhood friend passed away last September after fighting a rare form of Neuroendocrine carcenoma for four years: she was misdiagnosed a week before her wedding as having ovarian cancer and had a full hysterectomy a week after her honeymoon… when we were 26. She, the fiery spirit, decided that after failed chemo attempt after failed attempt, she would take her health into her own educated hands and adopted a raw food vegan diet–a diet that we, her friends, would also adopt for a month to raise money for her alternative treatments. This diet ended up helping her live all that much longer–stave off the cancer cells that were overrunning her body.

    She saw this cancer as a bit of a conundrum because she knew there was no cure for her physical self, but through her suffering, she brought people together. She educated people about the role of nutrition and its influence on cancer production about whole foods and whole health. That literally you are what you eat.

    Your friend Kim sounds like my Lindsey….we also shared a name. I believe we meet the people we are meant to meet and they are here to teach us something about ourselves. Your memories of her are the gifts that continue to give and you continue to share her love of food and of people. Look at what you give all of us!

    Thank you for all that you do; thank you for sharing Kim’s legacy. The fact that she is no longer suffering is a comfort but that thought cannot take away the pain of her loss.

    Lindsey K

    I hope that you find peace.

  27. kellypea

    I can imagine writing this was both painful, and a type of release. What an amazing person, and how fortunate you are to have known her. Someone like me would not have a clue without your description here of her bright spirit. Best to you and your family as you mourn the loss of your friend.

  28. jeanette

    My heart cries for your loss. I know what you mean using the present language to talk of someone you love who is gone. May your heart find comfort, somehow.

  29. Suzina22

    My deep condolences to your family, and those of your dear friend. We just lost a dear friend of 82 who was alive and full of wonder till the day she died. I have known this women for 48 years, when I was just three. She was the dearest person you will ever meet and literally never said a bad word about anyone as far as I know.

    The last two years has been as tough for me and my beloved, as with so many other people. Cancer has been a part of our lives, with a very serious preliminary diagnosis. It was talked about in every conversation and for awhile robbed us of a daily life filled with the mundane but also sacred things. It dawned on us one day that in order to live life, we needed to be in the present. The light is back on, but for how long, no one knows, but for now I will not ask those questions. Many thanks for you lovely writing which is always so heartful.

  30. Lindsey

    I’m sorry about your loss. There are no words to ease the pain but in the midst of sadness, I wanted you to know how very, very much I love your blog and how much joy it brings me every single week. You have a beautiful life and I so appreciate you sharing it with all of us. Your recipes and stories bring so much happiness to my little family and I can’t thank you enough for that.

  31. Kristina

    What a lovely remembrance of someone who sounds like a remarkable woman. I’m sorry for your loss, but also glad for you to have befriended someone who loved, guided, and inspired you so. May God bless and comfort you, your family, and all of Kim’s loved ones. I believe that you will all be reunited in joy one day.

  32. Kathy M

    What a lovely heart felt testament to a woman brought joy and enrichment to the people in the Seattle area. Thank you for sharing your part of Kim with the rest of us who never met her but have grown because of her.

  33. The Yummy Mummy

    Shauna –

    I met Kim on Twitter. Lucy had just started being interested in twitter, understanding that people talk to each other that way, and she asked me to read the tweets popping up. One of them was Kim, talking about her daughter who had been sick. Lucy, I think, imagined that her daughter was her age (around 4 at the time) and wanted me to ask about her and confirm that she wasn’t sick anymore. I did. And Kim wrote right back – not to me, to Lucy. She talked directly to her. She told her about her daughter and what she liked to do, what kind of girl she was, and that she was okay. It was possibly one of the sweetest things that has ever happened to me on Twitter and as you know, there have been a lot of sweet moments there. I was touched, completely touched, by someone I wouldn’t have even recognized at the grocery store.

    That is why I know that every beautiful, loving word you’ve written here about her is true. I believe she was special. That she made a difference in the world just by being in it, in big ways (in your life) and in small ways (in ours). That must be the definition of a life well-lived.

    xo Kim

  34. Caneel

    I’m so sorry for your loss. I’ve heard many great things about Kim in the recent past and wish I could have known her, too. Her family, and you as well, are in my prayers for peace and comfort.

  35. Kim Theodore

    Thank you for sharing your heart with us, Shauna, about this beautiful person named Kim. I never knew her, but it sounds like the world was a much brighter place with her in it. I choose to know that her light will continue to create more and more beauty in this world, even as her body is no longer here.

    Peace and love,

  36. JudyB

    My condolences on the loss of your dear friend. What a great friend, what a wonderful tribute.

  37. bo (laurie) roth

    i just found this blog, oddly, through the link with penny de los santos. I love what you wrote about Kim. I think I met her about the same time as you — it’s a bit fuzzy now — and it was such a balm to read your description of her. Thank you for that. I hadn’t seen her in months, either, just email notes back and forth. THe sadness continues to come in waves.
    But I have to say, your mother’s day sounds like so many I had in the past! Can I say that this mother’s day, my 20 year old daughter (and her 13 year old brother) actually made ME dinner and it was fabulous? The times they are a changin. Hugs to you.

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