My granddaughter was named after my cousin Robin, who also died from breast cancer when she was much too young. She lived long enough to know she had a namesake, but like the Robin in Yoffe’s story, she had no children of her own. We were 14 years apart in age; she lived in California, I in Minnesota, so we weren’t close in any sense. However, I knew her well enough to recognize her beauty in both body and spirit. I’m sure she would have been a wise and nurturing mother.

On the fifth anniversary of my cousin’s death, my daughter brought my granddaughter from Fort Worth, Texas, to Santa Cruz, California, to meet friends and family. They all assured us little Robin was doing the name proud with her effervescent personality and joie de vivre.

The article also reminded me of another beautiful woman whose life was cut short. And, there’s a name connection also.

When I first started dating the man I’ve been married to for over 25 years, I knew his first wife had been killed in a car accident, leaving behind three young children who were being raised by their grandparents. I was amazed when they revealed we had not only the same first name (Mary), but also the same middle name (Elaine), highly unusual coupled with my husband’s extremely rare last name.

My step-daughter has been posting photos of her mother on Facebook for Mother’s Day, and this tall woman with the long, dark hair looks like she enjoyed life to the fullest. I know she would be delighted with how her children turned out, would have cherished her grandchildren, and would be anticipating becoming a great-grandmother soon.

The length of our allotted time on this earth remains a mystery, so make the most of every moment. And, make sure you have shared at least a little of your life story with those you love so your memory will live on once you’re gone.

All eyes were on our father as our mother placed a bowl containing half a grapefruit in front of him. Dad reached over, scooped up a heaping spoonful from the sugar bowl in front of him, and with exaggerated motion, liberally sprinkled his grapefruit with the granules. Using the special spoon with tiny teeth at the point, he dug out a large section of the citrus, and while we all held our breath, brought the grapefruit to his mouth.

“Who put salt in the sugar bowl?” Dad roared, jumping up from the table, the spoon clattering to the floor. My brothers both shrieked with laughter, John pounding the table with his fists, and Mark rocking so hard the back of his booster chair banged against the window ledge behind him. I merely smiled and marveled at my father’s terrible memory. How could he forget we did exactly the same thing on April 1st the year before?

We repeated that April Fool’s Day ritual for many years, my father gamely playing the fool. But the year I was 15, my brothers were laughing at me instead of my father.

Our tiny community had an elementary school, but from seventh grade on, we had to catch a bus to junior and senior high school in a nearby town. Accepting the consequences of our actions was a big deal with my father, so I knew if I didn’t get on that bus, he would not allow my mother to drive me the seven miles. I was paranoid about missing the bus.

On the first day of April my sophomore year in high school, I woke to my mother calling up the stairs, “Mary, it’s almost 7:30!” I threw the covers aside and grabbed a skirt and sweater from my closet. (In 1961, we weren’t allowed to wear pants to school.) Pulling on white tennis shoes over bare feet, I hopped down the stairs and staggered into our only bathroom. A splash of water on my face, a comb through my short brown hair, a perfunctory brush of my teeth, and I was out the door, determined to be there when the bus arrived at 7:40.

I had crossed the railroad tracks and was approaching the bus stop at the elementary school by the time I realized it was Saturday. My brothers greeted me at the door when I returned home, shamefaced and truly feeling the fool. I still think they enjoyed that April Fool’s Day entirely too much.