This in memory of Peggy Rabb, who I knew only a little and a little while, but who was all kindness to me. In our first conversation we talked about things I have written and things she has written and writers we know, and she told me where she would be buried, and she spoke of it as a far away thing, which is how we all think of it, I suppose. Then she was all of a sudden sick and not getting better. She went home to die and I thought I would write to her once the holidays were past and perhaps even send her a gift, though what do you send? Now she is gone and plenty of people are poorer for it, which has to be the measure of a life.
My friend Ruth M. sent around one of Peggy’s poems, “Stone to Stone,” from her book, Old Home, and here is how it begins:
No bright star, and I not steadfast, lone,
Not leaning at the last, not in the least.
Abide in peace, Margaret Rabb.
