I never met her

 I never met her face to face. I lived in Switzerland. She lived in Texas.

When she was the editor of a literary magazine, she published my short story, The Pianist.

We started emailing each other until it became daily or even multi-times a day. Two subjects were off limits: religion and politics, because we had opposing viewpoints. That didn't matter.

The other topics were just about anything. There if there wasn't total agreement, there was total understanding. We shared worries and happiness about our families and dogs and do many other topics.

She worried about her daughter's illness, I worried about my stepmother's increasing dementia. She started telephoning my stepmom regularly (I did it weekly, but she did it more often) to lessen my mom's loneliness.

Despite our different lives and locations, there was a bond.

What happened?

I wish I knew. 

Little by little we emailed less and less and less...until months went by.

When her daughter died, I wrote. She never responded, but I figured she was bent over with grief.

I kept thinking I should write or call, but I didn't. She slipped from my regular thoughts.

Today on Facebook, I saw it was her birthday and a message posted by her daughter-in-law, whose romance with her son, was a regular part of our conversations as it unfolded, saying how hard it had been to bury her mother-in-law in 2020. My chance to reestablish our friendship is gone forever.

I'm at an age when friends in my age range die. I don't like it. 

I'm at an age, where over my lifetime, people have drifted in and out. Some drift back in. Drifting in is so much better than losing the chance to drift in forever. A reminder to pick up the phone, write the email or the social media message today. Tomorrow will be filed under impossible.