A short time ago my mom called with some sad news. At the time I was in the middle of a term paper, lost in thought, annoyed by the ringing phone. Upon hearing the resigned tone of my mom's voice, I instinctively braced for the worst.

"Do you remember Lola," she said, "who ran the deli down the street." In the instant my mom paused before continuing, my heart hit rock bottom.

"She died in a fire last Wednesday, there was nothing they could do. Everybody feels horrible."

Lola's American Deli sat in between Lair's Hallmark and McKenzie's Food Market in a shopping center near my home in Columbus, Ohio. For as long as I can remember, five foot tall Lola ran the deli, a modest establishment somewhat out of place amidst its upscale neighbors.

When I was a young child, my mother would take my brother and me there for a yogurt cone if we behaved during the weekly trip to the grocery next-store. My favorite flavor was boysenberry. Lola made sure I always got a big serving.

Once settled into our yogurt-cone routine, my brother and I skipped shopping all together and visited with Lola and the other customers while my mom went by herself. Lola had us sit up at the counter, right with the adults, who would talk with Lola while she worked.

The newspaper article about her death juxtaposes customers' fond memories with tragic details of the fire. Wheelchair bound since radiation treatment for a brain tumor left her partially paralyzed two years ago, Lola was trapped inside. Her husband ran for help to their trusted neighbor, an off-duty fire captain. The two men tried to enter the burning building.

"I could see Lola," the fire captain said, "but I couldn't get to her." He tried once more but was called back by his hysteric children who were begging him to stay outside. Lola's husband ran in once more too, yelling, "My Lola! My Lola!"