By Marianne Cronin
“Somewhere in the world are the people who once touched
us, loved us, or ran from us—and in that, we endure. Visit the places we’ve
been, and you might meet someone who brushed past us in a corridor, then forgot
us before we were even gone. We’re captured in the edges of strangers’
photographs—talking, laughing, blurring into the background of a picture that
now rests on a mantel in a room we’ve never seen. And in that too, we endure.
But it isn’t enough. It isn’t enough to have been a fleeting fragment of the
great expanse of existence. I want more. We want more. We want to be known. To
have our stories remembered, our names spoken, our essence felt. Even after
we're gone, we want the world to know who we were.”
That quote from the book really stayed with me…don’t you
think it’s fascinating? It makes me wonder… do you ever struggle with the idea
of death, or what might come after?
I spent the last thirty days of my dad’s life by his side.
He was scared. I remember him looking at me and said, “Don’t forget me.”
I haven’t. Not for one single day.
I still talk to him...about my doctor’s appointments, about
the little things. I think of all the questions I wish I’d asked him while he
was still here.
About the book...seventeen-year-old Lenni knows she won’t be
leaving the hospital alive. Living with a terminal illness, she clings fiercely
to her identity and spark, fighting to stay whole in a body worn down by
disease and drugs. Though confined within sterile walls, bound by hospital
rules and indifferent staff (I’m looking at you, Jackie), Lenni is still very
much alive…and determined to live.
She’s not alone. Lenni is surrounded by people drawn to her
light, none more so than 83-year-old Margot, a fellow patient recovering from
heart surgery, with more procedures ahead. The two first connect when Lenni
helps Margot discreetly retrieve something from a recycling bin, orchestrating
a distraction with mischievous charm. Soon after, Lenni finds a loophole into
the art class “for eighty and up” just so she can keep spending time with her.
To mark the combined 100 years, they’ve spent on this earth,
Lenni and Margot decide to paint the stories of their lives…stories of growing
old and staying young, giving joy, receiving kindness, losing love, and finding
that one person who means everything.
Despite its premise…a book about death and dying…this story
radiates love, joy, and life. It’s a tribute to unexpected friendships, the
kind we long for without knowing we’re missing them. It reminds us that in the
end, what matters isn’t just what we do with life, but who we share it with.
Much of the narrative is through Margot’s eyes: her loving
father, haunted by war; a marriage strained and broken by grief; a love
unreciprocated; a soul-deep connection that endured three decades. Through
Margot’s stories and paintings, Lenni gets to experience the full arc of a life
she won’t get to live. In return, she helps Margot reckon with what’s behind
her…and what still lies ahead, should she survive the next surgery.
As their canvases fill with color and memory, we see their
lives in vivid detail. From Lenni, we learn about her first and only kiss, the
heartbreak of an alcoholic mother, the father she pushes away. From Margot, we
see a marriage undone after the death of a child, the woman named Meena who
offered salvation, and Humphrey, who taught her to love the stars…a gift she
later passes on to Lenni.
One unforgettable moment captures the essence of this bond: Margot and Lenni outside beneath the stars. “I find it so peaceful,” Margot says softly. “Me
too.” Then, after a pause, “Do you know
the stars we see most clearly are already dead?” “Well, that’s depressing,” Lenni replies,
pulling away. Margot gently links her
arm through Lenni’s. “No, it’s not depressing. It’s beautiful. They’ve been
gone for who knows how long… but we can still see them. They live on.”
What’s extraordinary about The One Hundred Years of Lenni
and Margot is how it turns what should be a story about dying into one
about life. The humor, the quiet rebellion, the art class…it’s a reminder that
even in the face of finality, we can create something lasting. Just like stars:
already gone...but still lighting our nights.
Dad...I will carry your light forward…just like those stars…you
live on.
🩷🩷🩷
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