I guess my favorite memory of Joan was this: her imagination.
I remember one day, at Joan's house, when I was eight. It must have been during the spring, because I remember snow, but it wasn't very cold. We would run up into her room, and barricade the door with a big toy box that took both of us to lift, because we were too small to reach the latch at the top. As long as I live, I'll probably always remember the two windows in her room, because we would always sit and look out those windows while we thought about what we would do next, what we would play. When it was rainy we'd look at the pearl shaped drops sliding off the outside of the window; when it was thundering we'd watch the ancient oak tree in the MacTavish's yard next door and huddle under her quilted flower comforter, wondering what the odds were of it falling over. On sunny days we usually wouldn't look at that old white-framed window long, because Joan would already be halfway down the stairs and yelling to her mother that we were going outside to play. And when it snowed we'd go play in it, but when it got too cold we just drank hot cocoa and begged Joan's mother to let us go play outside instead.
This one day, a really very special day, Joan said, we brought Spiffy Jack Spy, her calico, with us to her room. We ran up the stairs, shut the door as quickly as possible, and blocked it--it was down to a routine now. We put Spiffy Jack on the toy chest while we dragged it across the teal carpeting, and when we were done we sat him on the bed with us. We looked at her window for a while and talked--it was sunny. I was waiting for Joan to grab my hand and pull me off the bed to move the toy box and go outside, but she had a funny little sparkle in her eyes that day. Ever since I was six-and-a-half I had known that the sparkle meant Joan had something really fun she was planning, even if it did end with us getting a lecture from poor Mrs. MacTavish mourning some carelessly trampled flowers.
Taking Spiffy Jack off her lap, Joan slid off her bed and went to the toy chest, and dug through it for a minute, until she found what she was looking for. I remember how proud she looked when she held up the shiny pink doll dress, but I didn't yet understand why.
"What are you gonna do with that, Joan?" I asked her.
"We're gonna pretend," she explained, as she climbed back on to the bed. "We're going to be knights, and we're going to save Prince Spiffy!"
I looked up long enough to see Joan's mother give the faintest ghost of a smile through her tears.
I remember feeling surprised when I heard this, because neither of us had ever heard of this game. Joan must have been a feminist from day one, because when I asked why we were girl knights, saving a prince, she told me that "boys can get rescued, too". And then I asked her why Prince Spiffy was wearing a dress. She said that princes can do whatever they want.
There was the sound of a dozen half-hearted chuckles at the memory of Joan's spirit and cheery outlook on life. It sounded like the voices of strangled hopelessness and sorrow from where I stood.
Joan had me pull two hairbrushes off her dresser for swords, while she finished putting the dress on a squirmy Spiffy Jack. I practiced a couple thrusts with Joan, and then she put "Prince Spiffy" on top of her taller clothes dresser, which she had to use a chair to reach. We must have played our game for an hour, just standing there seeing who could sound the bravest while saying, "I'll save you, Prince Spiffy!" and battling imaginary monsters with out "swords", while Spiffy Jack napped in the sun shining on top of the dresser.
I promised myself, just this morning, that even if I live to be two-hundred-and-thirty, I'll never forget that day. And if we live for two months or ninety more years, I know that…that no one will ever forget Joan Elizabeth Robins. Ever.
Smoothing out a wrinkle on my black skirt, I stepped down from the pulpit, locking eyes with Joan's parents for a second--long enough for a conversation that no words could ever express enough to pass between the three of us. I wanted to tell them it was okay, but I wasn't even sure that I'd be okay myself. But then I caught a glimpse of the open casket, and saw the artificial rosiness of Joan's cheeks, her favorite shade of red on her lips, and wondered how she could have been so brave while fighting the cancer. She was the bravest person I'd ever known, and I felt that I could be brave, too. Looking at that once lively body, formerly harboring an amazing soul, I knew what I had said about never forgetting her was true. I couldn't. Never ever, even for a second; even on a really very special day.
