My friend Marcia Collins died on June 16th 2026. Yesterday, September 19th, we celebrated her life in Warwick RI. This is my eulogy.

I’m going to start by stating the obvious: Marcia Collins was magnificent. She was curious, bold, adventurous, informed, and I don’t think it’s over stating to say intrepid. She was always inspiring. 

I came to know and love Marcia through our shared love for Winter Collins, and of course for Liz. I met her the day after Winter was born, but got to really know her when Winter was a toddler. Often our daycare shifts were in tandem, and Marcia would pick her up at my house. Being an extraordinary conversationalist, those moments would become hour-long conversations. We’d talk about Winter, of course, but also of Marcia’s tennis game, her latest skiing adventure, where she’d traveled, her love of sailing, the music she was listening to — especially the telecasts of The Met Opera at the local cinema —and what were were both reading. We’d sometimes trade books.

As Winter grew older and moved to New York, Marcia would invite me over during school vacations when Winter was visiting. While Winter and I focused on our latest Lego project, Marcia and I maintained a background conversation. Both being teachers, we’d frequently talk about education and theories of learning. She was clearly attentive to Winter’s experience of school, but there was more. She was reflecting on her career, comparing her experience with what she was witnessing — almost as if preparing to return to the classroom. She was in it.

When I was in the process of buying a house on Cape Cod, Marcia called and asked if she and Winter could come see it during April vacation. I hadn’t yet closed on the sale, but arranged to get keys. A few of my friends had told me I was crazy for buying a run-down old farm house, but Marcia saw the potential and was entirely encouraging. We made a day of their visit, and at some point found ourselves hiking up a steep trail. I of course knew that Marcia was Winter’s grandmother, but I never thought of her as a grandmother — and as we trudged higher on the trail, I panicked. What was I doing dragging an 81 year old up this trail? When I checked-in with Marcia, she waved me off: I’m doing great. And she was. 

It happened again a few years later at Christmas when Marcia, Winter, Liz and I were navigating a sandy trail and barrier dune to see the sun low over Cape Cod Bay. She was 86 and this time agreed that she could use my arm to stabilize herself as we climbed the dune. But there was never a question that she’d get to the beach!

Last summer which would be the last time that Marcia stayed with me, the day before her departure she announced that she might be leaving before I got up. I asked what time, and I told her I’d be up and make us coffee before she hit the road. When she emerged from the guest room, she was dressed for tennis. She was leaving Cape Cod at 5:45 to make a 9 AM tennis game in Rhode Island with her mixed doubles group. 

To someone who’s an avowed homebody, the stories of her travels, and her active everyday life, often felt downright cinematic. After spending time with Marcia I often thought, she’s figured out how to live well as you age.

Earlier this summer, she taught me something about dying well, too. 

The day she entered Hospice, ostensibly for a pain treatment, she texted me from her bed to confirm our lunch date schedule for a week later. In retrospect this feels absurd, but it’s such a lesson: no mater the circumstances, life should be attended to. The next day I got the news from Liz about her prognosis, and I’m incredibly grateful to have been able to be there with Marcia, Winter and Liz during her final days. 

The day I arrived at Hospice to see her, Marcia was philosophical about what was happening — as much as any of us can be. She let us know she was ready to go. The next day, when we were sitting together and her strength was diminished, she turned to me and whispered, “I can’t stand that this process is so passive.” And there it was, even in her dying Marcia wanted to be actively engaged, she wanted to get on her way.

Marcia taught me a lot about living a determined, courageous, and loving life. She was the non-judgmental, fiercely encouraging, and supportive elder I’d always needed in my life — she made me feel that what I do and who I am matters. I’m not alone in that. In the months since she died, so many of our shared friends have told me similar experiences of her. When she died, her loss hit me hard — harder than other deaths I’d experienced. On reflection, I recognized that Marcia and I grew to love each other, for sure, but even more than that we REALLY liked each other. 

We spent part of last Christmas together, which was wonderful. But ‘last Christmas’ takes on a different meaning when someone dies, as do so many other things. On her final day of consciousness, listening to a playlist assembled by Winter at her request, our eyes locked during the first notes of Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings, and we both began crying. Music was so important to Marcia, and we both knew it was a last time… The next day, when she was unconscious and Adagio for Strings circled back, it was different. It always will be. I always will be. 

I part company with Marcia in the hopes I can carry forward a dash of her verve — especially her generosity, openness, sociability, and vitality. I cherish the fact that she folded me into her chosen family.