SEPTEMBER 17, 2025 – “That’s why . . .” I said to our granddaughter while in the car on the way home today, “we shouldn’t take anyone for granted.” I’d just told her the real-life story below.
“What does ‘take for granted mean’?” she asked. When I explained the idiom, she easily grasped the concept.
Earlier in the day while out for my daily walk, I’d received a text from my sister Jenny: “So it was true. Devastating.” Attached was a link to the news story out of England. Though the day was sunny and bright, the headline carried me off to the slopes of Mount Olympus where Zeus struck with a bolt of lightning, split the air with thunder, and unleashed a torrent of grief too deep to fathom.
Just a few days ago Jenny had told me the story of how her daughter Maia’s very closest and longest-standing friends had texted, then FaceTimed Jenny and Maia, all in a fair amount of distress. Over the years, the friend became as dear to Jenny as to Maia, so it was not unusual for this friend to include Jenny in communications. The friend was calling from her parents’ home in London. The parents were still in Greece, where they spend their summers. Jenny advised the friend to get in touch right away with medical help and with her parents. She did, apparently, but Jenny later found that the friend had attempted to contact her and Maia numerous times that evening (London time).
The next day, a mutual friend of Maia and the friend in London was spreading the rumor that the latter had died. But this wasn’t true. Maia heard so from other sources. Jenny was miffed and made sure Maia understood that no one should spread such a rumor as had been circulated.
“Isn’t that ridiculous?” Jenny said in her telling of the story two days ago.
“It certainly is,” I said. “It’s quite the tale—the worst possible news followed by the best possible news.” Jenny has long been the source of amazing and amusing stories, many tied to the life and friends of her daughter. Upon hearing this latest one, I was mulling how I might work it into a post.
Then Zeus struck. The rumor was no such thing. The headline—over a large photo of the friend and her mother—in The [London] Times read, “Greek Shipping Heiress, 28, Dies in London Flat of ‘Insect Bite’.” Over time we’d heard much about this unusual and unusually good friend of our niece Maia. “Marissa,” was her name, and she had a heart of gold. Unspoilt by wealth and privilege, Marissa befriended Maia way back in school, and the two were as close as sisters. In fact, Marissa called herself Maia’s “big sister.” In a Facebook post today, Jenny eulogized this remarkable friend to heart-stopping levels:
. . . She was full of positivity, enjoyed life, had big dreams to follow, and adored the theater. Most of all, she was a gentle soul with a heart full of love. During the Covid years she was back in London, and managed to direct and rehearse nearly daily, a production of the musical “Oliver” on Zoom. Maia was a participant. The cast were of all abilities, and literally from all over the world. It maintained sanity for a lot of people to have something to do every day, and to be connected to others. I was so grateful that Maia had someone she was with literally every day for hours on FaceTime, having as much of a life as one could during those days. I honestly never knew anyone so passionate about theater. Marissa passed that enthusiasm on to a lot of people, including Maia. I remember sitting with her in a theater in London, and her telling me, “In the New York production, that line was a little different,” or in “New York the staging was a little different in this scene.” She was on expert on a lot of shows. I believe she saw Lion King well over a hundred times. Marissa was clever and smart, but most of all she was inclusive. She was so warm and friendly to everyone. She loved her family, she loved London, and she also loved Greece. We often talked about traveling to Greece together. She was going to show us how beautiful it is. I painfully regret that I always said, “Maybe next summer.” Now I sit here stunned that I will never hear her voice again, never will hear that gentle laugh, and will never get to say, “Love you too,” at the end of the phone calls. In this deep sadness I am trying to be grateful for having had this beautiful person in our lives – if only it could have been longer . . .
Oh, Eleos, where art thou and thy mercy?
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
