Friday, May 2, 2025 - Day 262
Friday, May 2, 2025
Friday, May 2, 2025 - Day 262 Good morning, friends and family.
Our neighbor Fred called us yesterday afternoon…
He and his wife Anna moved in about four years ago, and over that time, they’ve become more than neighbors — they’ve become close friends, the kind you feel lucky to find just down the block.
Fred is 79, and Anna is younger — though if you ever asked her how much younger, she’d just raise an eyebrow and pour more wine.
In 2021, they moved from a single-floor condo into a two-story townhouse no more than 30 yards from us. Mind you… they’re in their seventies, which says they should be looking for a ranch. This townhouse made zero sense — but as I got to know Anna, it made perfect sense. She backed down from nothing. And I learned, quickly, that’s exactly the kind of bold move you’d expect from Anna. I never understood the change in venue, but I understood this: having them as neighbors has felt like a lifelong friendship crammed into just a few good years.
Fred called to tell us that Anna was being moved from the hospital to hospice. Her long, courageous battle with cancer was nearing its end. The doctors had done all they could, and it was time to ease her pain. And there had been a lot of pain — two long years of it. But through it all, Anna remained hopeful. She didn’t miss a single appointment. She took every pill. And Fred was always by her side — her rock, her chauffeur, her personal sommelier (there was always a bottle ready to go).
Last night at 9:00, Anna passed.
She was the love of Fred’s life, a devoted mom and grandmother, a friend to everyone (and I mean everyone — she could strike up a conversation in a waiting room, a grocery aisle, or the Vatican). She was pure Italian — affectionate, fierce, loud in the best way. If she loved you, you knew it: you got hugs, kisses, and enough pasta to feed a small army. If she didn’t love you… well, you still might get pasta — but who knows what it might contain. Anna’s dad worked for Al Capone… so no telling what she learned back in the day.
Cindy and I adored her. Her laugh could carry through the neighborhood, with the same passion and energy as Rizzo in Grease — only with more snorting. She drank red wine from the largest goblets you’ve ever seen — not for show, but because she laughed so hard she needed the extra volume to avoid splash damage.
In some ways, our paths were predetermined to cross. Cindy’s mom and Anna’s mom lived across the hall from one another, in a nearby condo unit, for decades. Anna’s mom regularly bringing food over to Cindy’s mom. That’s just what Italians do for the people they love. This connection only coming to life after Fred and Anna moved here. And now we were the neighbors enjoying this fabulous food and love.
When I was diagnosed with ALS last summer, Anna and I found ways to laugh through our lousy new realities. We joked about who would go first, always agreeing it wasn’t a race — just a very poorly planned stroll. Every time we ended an evening together, we’d hug. She’d say “Love you, guy!” and I’d say “Love you too!” And then — always — “Later.” Never goodbye.
So yes, my heart is heavy this morning. I’ll miss Anna deeply. I’ll miss the sound of her laugh echoing off the trees, the sight of her on her beloved Lido Deck, glass in hand, waving like the queen of Kimberly Lane. I’m so grateful they moved here — and I’m heartbroken she had to leave so soon.
Later, Anna. I love you. 💔 Wishing you all a peaceful Friday.
Love you guys. ❤️
