Judy
Mo’orea, French Polynesia
Today
As your ashes scatter over the water, my guilt is replaced by a lightness of heart that I did not expect. You are where you wanted to be forever, and I have, many decades late, fulfilled my promise. I hope that you have not been stuck in some purgatory state because of it, but even if so, you are released now, my dear friend.
I stand here in my bare, wrinkled feet, thinking of all that you missed. But rather than consider how you never bore children or got to know mine, the big things are erased by a small memory that winds its way to the top.
We’d sat here on these sands singing “Love Me Do,” the ditty that became all the rage not long after we’d become stewardesses. A song by four boys from Liverpool oddly called the Beatles. That feels like yesterday. Which, ironically, became another of their hits. You would have loved it.
Would you believe, Beverly, that they became quite an international sensation not long after we lost you, and that their images still grace silly things like lunch boxes and drinking glasses? My grandchildren like them and cannot believe that I was working the flight that took those boys from London to New York for their debut on Ed Sullivan . Joe, God rest his soul, pulled some strings to get me assigned to that flight.
It was to be my last because he and I were married the week after that. Valentine’s Day. It was a fitting way to say goodbye to you. That final flight. The last time I donned the fitted blue suit. Or so I thought it would be at the time. I felt you there with me, serving champagne and strawberries to those long-haired youths.
And I smiled. Because in spite of knowing you on this earth for such a short time, you became an indelible part of my soul. Forever.