"…when she was at Jenny's funeral…"

 I stopped her and asked her to repeat what she'd said.

 "That can't be. Jenny's in California," I said.

 My friend insisted.  "It was her. I saw the obituary in the paper. She died in August, up the coast. Didn't you see it?"

 I stuttered an excuse, hung up the phone, rushed to the computer and pulled up the local newspaper's web site. I typed her name into the search feature, then held my breath as I pushed "Go."

Her name bobbed to the top of the page and floated there. I clicked and found her date of birth and death. Her family – sister, brother, parents – and the place she died. She was 38.

 Jenny. My old roommate's sister who moved into the spare bedroom after she graduated from college. Jenny, a hippie when the rest of the world was in the process of migrating from discos to the Reagan era. Jenny, who loved a good joke and sprinkled her raucous laughter wherever she went.

 Jenny was dead.

 The first time I met her, Jenny was barefoot and braless, in jeans and tee-shirt. An exotic mix of Italian father and French-Vietnamese mother, her hair brushed the tops of her thighs when she walked. 

 She wasn't sure of her flight pattern – didn't know where life would lead her – knew she didn't want to teach, but that was all. She hung around the house and dated the friends of guys we brought home.

 Then one day she met a man with money. He gave her expensive gifts  – a diamond tennis bracelet, emerald earrings. After a while she moved out and in with him.

 Her visits grew scarce. She was always out when we called. We should have been concerned, but we weren't. We were caught up in being young and single.

 One Sunday afternoon Jenny dropped by to tell us she was leaving. She had a bruise on her chin and another on her cheek. Both were yellow and fading under her make-up.

 She drank coffee with a shaky hand and told us she was joining the Navy, running away from her boyfriend. She showed us the bruises – there were more under her shirt.

 "He tried to kill me last night," she said.

 She hid out with another friend until she left for Officers Candidates school. When she graduated she came home for her things and said she'd be in touch.

 Things changed. I married. Jenny married. And the friendship we shared was shelved. But – just for a while. Just until I could get past the business of raising my children, writing that best seller, serving on those committees, redecorating my home…

 I thought about Jenny in the years after we lost contact. Occasionally I would see one of her other friends or family and they would say she was fine and dandy. Doing great. Living here or there. Divorced. In computers.

Dead..

I always meant to tell Jenny how much I loved her. I meant to say how important her friendship was to me, to let her know she counted for something in my life. Tell her I treasured our time together. That she was irreplaceable and wonderful and inspiring. And that I was infinitely richer because she touched my life.

 But I didn't.

I put Jenny on a shelf, saving her friendship for later, when it was more convenient, when I had a moment to spare. How was I to know that by the time I went to take her down off that shelf, the bottle would be empty?

 And I would discover that there was no more Jenny to go around.