The shocking news of a friend’s death came yesterday, a good 2 1/2 months after Dayna J. Browne breathed her last. A casualty of cancer.
“Dayner” was glamorous, buoyant, brilliant, kind, supportive, large in size and spirit, and larger-than-live, a gourmet chef, a fine writer and a lawyer for the public good, first for Housing and Urban Development, and later for the U.S. Patent Office. She was my friend. I really loved her.
We spent plenty of time drinking bourbon we could scarcely afford, talking about all manner of things friends talk about. Except she frequently said to me, “Don’t sacrifice the permanent on the altar of the immediate.
She was raised a conservative Christian — she even attended Bob Jones University briefly — but that never seemed to quite fit her, but I believe she maintained her love of the Lord. But I don’t know, really.
She loved her dog, Tavish, and I think another one, Bentley. But, as happens, we lost touch, only to sort-of reconnect on social media. That was insufficient, of course, and today I am feeling the guilt and loss over not visiting her in Washington, D.C., where she carved out her career and, it appears, a community of close friends.
Again I have returned to the Island of Grief, and burned the ships behind me. It might take a little while before we rebuild for the voyage back home. But this is terra cognita.
Adieu, dear friend, taken for granted as I too often do.