I will not mourn you, Mariann. It’s something you would never have wanted anyone to do. I know that, because when you came to read to my literacy class at the Bequia High School, it was from a favourite childhood story about children dealing with grief, and how death is a part of the natural cycle, that we should accept, not mourning the passing of anyone in our lives, but rather celebrating that we knew them. And I am very glad indeed to have known you, Mariann Palmborg. You were possibly the most self-assured, strongest-willed, independent, incredibly brave, and kindest woman I have even known. And the strength, encouragement and support you offered other women was palpable, and gratefully received by those of us who appreciated, and enjoyed, your friendship. Everyone on Bequia will speak of your never-ending crusade to rescue, feed, and protect the stray dogs on the island, but I will remember you for the enthusiasm and enjoyment with which you read every enstallment of my writing sent to you, for our long talks about books and music, and for your unwavering friendship. I’ll miss the phone calls on my birthday; from wherever you happened to be in the world, it didn’t matter, you were always the one person who remembered. And you encouraged me to follow my writing dreams, and my attempts to become truly who I am, and not the someone else others saw me as. I admire you, Mariann; I am grateful that I knew you; I’m sorry to not have had the opportunity to see you one last time, and to have the opportunity to tell you all of this while you were still alive. But I’m sure you knew, in any case, because you were that kind of woman. I will always remember you, and admire you, but I will never mourn you. These are not tears of sadness falling on the keyboard, but tears of joy that I had the privledge of knowing you, Mariann.

If my second novel is ever published, you will live on as Solfrid. Thanks for the inspiration.