Linda would not have left Sam's side for anything. Nothing short of death could take her from him. So when she passed away last month, it was a blow unlike any other, not only for her family, but for ours.
Linda had worked with my brother, Sam, for years. I don't even know how many. I was too young when she started with him to even try to keep track now. Maybe ten? Ten years or so.
She followed him everywhere. Every school. Every summer program. Every year. Her car was there, trailing the bus and she was there to push him around in his chair all day every day at school.
I remember once, when Sam had been asking for her a lot one Summer, my family was driving to a vacation and my mom was trying to reference "Linda Vista," an area in California. But she didn't want to say Linda (pronounced LEEN-duh) because she thought it would set Sam off on a thought train that we'd never get him off of again. I wasn't getting it, though. She kept saying "the town that's name means pretty view." I kept saying, "Bella Vista? Isn't that a high school?" (yes it is.) My dad finally whispered to me, "Linda Vista." I said, "why aren't we saying it out loud? Why aren't we saying Linda Vista?" Sam said, "BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-BA-BA?!" and started pointing back the way we'd come for the next hour or so. "Ohhh," I said.
Tonight, her husband came to visit us and have dinner.
I've never thought so hard about which clothes to change into after biking home from work.
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