The musical at Lynn's school is an all-community, all-weekend event. In the lobby there is a lively, eclectic bazaar where you can buy flowers to bestow on the lovely ladies and gift packs of Hershey's Kisses for the gentlemen. This year a local confectioner prepared edible pictures of the cast, as well as plain chocolate bars with the kids' individual pictures on the wrappers. And there were pocket packs of Kleenex donated by the Rite-Aid Corporation being hawked as a necessity given the tragic story about to unfold. 

The opening performance was on Thursday night and the kids all had to be in school by 7:30 the next morning. After Friday night's performance the parents of the young man who plays Marius hosted the kids for a cast party to which the rest of us contributed food. Last night's performance was preceded by the fourth annual Josh Klein Fund Spaghetti Dinner.

I first wrote about Josh in May of 1999. He was the third of four sons of a family that moved to my street when their oldest, now twenty-five, was an infant. Josh had surgery as toddler to repair a heart defect and remove a malformed lung. Although he was an energetic, active kid, his heart and remaining lung deteriorated so that by the time he was sixteen he needed a transplant. He died waiting for one, and the piece referenced above is about the shiva call I had to make.

Josh's parents have channeled their grief into tireless work on behalf of organ donation education. The Josh Klein Fund supports these efforts. The spaghetti dinner was conceived by his classmates (who graduated in 2001) as a way to combine two of Josh's passions -- theater and food -- and raise money for the causes that were important to him. The dinner is held in the school cafeteria before the Saturday night performance of the musical.

For us this event is a gathering of friends. Our neighbors are there, our kids are there, served first and excused so they can prepare for their performance. Marilyn and Joel visit each table and thank each person individually for coming. Sometimes there is entertainment, and there is always a speaker from the Gift of Life Donor Program.

Last night we heard an attractive woman in her forties who told the story of how her family had become aware of and involved in educating people about the importance of organ and tissue donation. In August of 1997 her middle son Jonathan, then twelve, and his older brother went for a bike ride after supper. They were hit by a car. Jonathan was thrown from his bicycle and, despite his wearing an approved safety helmet, he sustained a massive head injury. And even though he was swiftly transferred to a large trauma center less than two miles away, doctors there determined that there was no hope of recovery.

Lynn was twelve in 1997. This woman and I had been pregnant at the same time, so I felt something of a connection. As she continued to speak, though, I began to think that I had heard this story before. I looked at her name on the program. And then I remembered. She graduated from the school where I taught in 1973. Her family had a business that always supported the musical and the plays and the yearbook with ads. She married a classmate and established a home in a community served by a neighboring school district. When we gathered for the first day of school a few weeks after her son's accident those of us who had known her and her brothers recalled them, expressed our sorrow.

When I focused again on her presentation, I heard her saying that she had to learn about the process and importance of organ donation under extremely difficult circumstances. She and her husband made the decision to donate all that was suitable of Jonathan. He was a healthy 12-year-old, with a usable heart, lungs, liver, corneas, and other tissues. She knows that her family's great loss made it possible to extend the life and health of some other family's loved one. She has never regretted her decision. She ended her presentation by urging those in attendance to learn all they can and make their important decisions now, and to educate others about this process.

I spoke to her afterwards. Had we been sitting in a waiting room or a bus station together we never would have recognized each other, but when I said my name she remembered me instantly. She and Marilyn and I talked together then, three mothers with intertwining histories. There's a grief that can't be spoken,
There's a pain goes on and on. Empty chairs at empty tables, sings the play's Marius as he mourns his lost friends. Marilyn and Cheryl have found a way to speak their grief. Their pain goes on, but they use it in the service of others. May the Josh Klein Fund Spaghetti Dinner see full chairs and heaping tables for many years to come. 

There was another gathering at another cast member's home after the performance. The length of the show meant that most of the kids did not get there until nearly 11:00. Lynn called and asked permission to stay for an extended time. The snow we were expecting had not yet begun. Two o'clock, I told her, no later. She was home by one. There was really no need for me to wait up for her. But I did anyway, and held her very close for a moment. I think she knew I wanted more than just to congratulate her on another fine performance.