Judy
Mo’orea, French Polynesia
Today
I stay on the beach until well after the sun fades away. At this time of year, it is winter in the northern hemisphere, but summer in the south. My old bones are appreciating that. By living in Miami, I’ve gone as far south as I can tolerate. But this heat envelops me in a comforting way. I feel it like it’s a hug from you.
I look up and see the stars twinkling in unparalleled brilliance. I think about that last night in London. How you and your mother conspired to create what became a night I’ll never forget.
You took me to Harrods, and we each picked out a dress. And we learned that your father, softening somewhat now that you’d really and truly been out on your own, insisted that we put them on his account. Clearly, your mother was making some headway in helping him appreciate the more important parts of life.
I chose a formfitting burgundy dress that had golden threads that glistened in the light. A fancy nod to the pink-and-yellow sweater from my mom.
You picked a dress of emerald-green velvet, off the shoulders, and utterly gorgeous. Utterly you.
The Sinatra concert was pure magic.
Our seats were on the right side of the theater in a little box that gave us a terrific view of the stage—and of the other patrons. You told me that it was a special concert for dignitaries.
And though we were no one special, you said that there were perks to being Mr. Wall Street’s daughter now and then.
You pointed out Princess Margaret to me, and she was even more beautiful than in photographs.
The best moment for most people was when Frank sent the band away and sang, accompanied only by piano, “One for My Baby.” Despite the vastness of the venue, he shrunk it at that moment to a small-town barroom and made every person in the room feel that he was singing only to them.
But you knew my best moment as soon as it happened. The one that made me cry. The one that prompted you to take my hand and squeeze it. Because “Come Fly with Me” was not just a song to me. It was my parents. It was the renewal of something that I let go of after they died. And it was my salvation when I was hired by Pan Am and could fulfill the promises that I made to myself to go everywhere he sang about.
That was supposed to be our plan. Yours and mine. We wrote down those locales and dreamed our big dreams. We did make it to Paris and London and Cairo and Hawaii together. And Joe, ever considerate, made sure that over the years, we made it to the rest of them. Every single one of them. That was no easy feat when children came along as well as their expenses. But he made sure it happened for me. And for you—at each place, I left a pinch of your ashes. So you were with me, dearest friend. Always.
Although you and I know they weren’t and aren’t your real ashes. There was nothing to gather. No body to bury. But I visited the site. With your parents. Grief stricken, all of us. We scooped up earth from where we’d lost you, and we let our hands sift it into jars—one for them, one for me. I’d like to think that even a bit of you was there. It’s what I told myself at each place I traveled.
It’s what I tell myself today.