Monday, May 18, 2020
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My grandfather brought Catherine Anne and I together. Fifth or fourth graders then, we became fast friends. Paper dolls, sharing favorite books (I remember ‘Caddie Woodlawn’ for one) and drawing, Sunday school, and often, Sunday breakfast at her house on 15th Street. We played on the broad steps of the Masonic Temple on 16th Street and at my house on Swann Street. Years passed—before we found ourselves in the same orbit again, at Howard, both of us art majors. More years passed before we were to reunite to my great joy, when I returned to DC. Catherine Anne’s voice, her chuckles, her smile, still the same, her love of art and art making very much alive. Though we only saw each other twice since I got back our long, comfortable conversations ranging over the what’s, why’s, who’s, how’s and times we’d been together and apart, were
so sweetly evocative of something I cannot find the word for. Catherine Anne, my oldest, dearest friend.
