I just got a text message on my WhatsApp. It was from Gail.
"Blessings and good wishes to you and family," she said.
I had wished her on Thanks Giving (2023). She didn't respond. I was thinking of her . . . I knew she wasn't in good health.
I met her in September of 2012 as I was waiting to catch the train at the Long Island Rail Road Station, New York. I was headed to my sister's house. Gail was going home. We began chatting.
"I commute on this train to work." She was a federal employee . . .
"I work with Unicef––now based in Kiribati," I said.
We talked more-- boarded the train, sat together. We were bound for the same station––Hicksville. My sister's house in Jericho was 5 miles from the station. She would be picking me.
In the next twenty minutes we exchanged our contacts, shared more information. I told her about my son, my work . . .
Gail had migrated from India in her youth . . . her husband passed away and her adult son was about to make an important decision––marry an Italian-American woman.
"I wanted an Indian girl for him," Gail said sadly.
We kept communicating on Google chat, hangout, messenger . . . email and finally graduated to WhatsApp. She opened up more about her son's marriage. I encouraged her to accept his decision . . . she shared the wedding photos from Italy. A couple of years later informed about their divorce. Gail was devastated. I am glad I was there for her.
We met only once––Gail and I. I still remember her face. We have remained friends, over the years (courtesy, internet platforms).
We are still continuing–– 12 years now!
"Blessings and good wishes to you and family," she said.
I had wished her on Thanks Giving (2023). She didn't respond. I was thinking of her . . . I knew she wasn't in good health.
I met her in September of 2012 as I was waiting to catch the train at the Long Island Rail Road Station, New York. I was headed to my sister's house. Gail was going home. We began chatting.
"I commute on this train to work." She was a federal employee . . .
"I work with Unicef––now based in Kiribati," I said.
We talked more-- boarded the train, sat together. We were bound for the same station––Hicksville. My sister's house in Jericho was 5 miles from the station. She would be picking me.
In the next twenty minutes we exchanged our contacts, shared more information. I told her about my son, my work . . .
Gail had migrated from India in her youth . . . her husband passed away and her adult son was about to make an important decision––marry an Italian-American woman.
"I wanted an Indian girl for him," Gail said sadly.
We kept communicating on Google chat, hangout, messenger . . . email and finally graduated to WhatsApp. She opened up more about her son's marriage. I encouraged her to accept his decision . . . she shared the wedding photos from Italy. A couple of years later informed about their divorce. Gail was devastated. I am glad I was there for her.
We met only once––Gail and I. I still remember her face. We have remained friends, over the years (courtesy, internet platforms).
We are still continuing–– 12 years now!
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