She became my sister-in-law when I was 21, my ex-sister-in-law when I divorced her brother at age 39.

She remained my friend, championed my pursuits, cheered my successes, told me (when I was my family of four’s sole financial support) that if she ever had kids she wanted to be a mother just like me.

She was an athlete, kayaking the Baja, the Mississippi, the Amazon, and other waterways, clocking over 30,000 miles in a boat.

She was a quilter.

She became an ordained Methodist minister. She and her final husband adopted six kids out of foster care and raised them to adulthood.

She was my writing partner, my thought-partner, my editor and believer.

On Washington Island, she was my neighbor.

She was my oldest friend.

Lying in semidarkness on my yoga mat months after Valerie’s death, I heard my teacher say she would read a poem titled CANOE. I heard my friend’s voice in every word. I tracked down the poet, corresponded with her, told her about Valerie’s amazing, adventurous life.

Recently, I was asked by Valerie’s children to speak at her memorial service. Luckily, I had CANOE.

CANOE by Joanne M. Clarkson 2021 (used with permission)

The waxing crescent casts a tiny canoe on the water.

She is empty, enlivened by breezy waves.

I swim out into the midnight lake and climb within her nacre.

I take up a paddle painted with images of fish and birds.

She carries me into a perfect shadow.

Mayflies or snowflakes in starlight surround us.

I face fear and joy in equal measure, my honest life.

And in a minute or a month, when I return to shore,

All that needs to heal lies behind me in a wake.

And she sails off toward wholeness carrying the weight of my dreams.