Tomorrow Is Not Promised

I'm sad tonight.  Almost too sad to write. and that strikes me as funny since I haven't spoken to her since she called me in the hospital to express her outrage at the NYTimes reporting on my shooting..

You are not 59 years old.  I know this because R'y isn't 59.  I know what year this is; you are both 58.

R'y is her brother and they are my first cousins and we lived next door to one another, our fathers working together and commuting together, then not; our parents best of friends, or not; but the kids never were involved in that drama.  

Instead, we ran the in and out of one another's houses, relying on their pretzels and our bread and butter for an afternoon snack, asking which ever mother was available a question, playing in whichever yard was available, the only real demarcation our swing set and their cherry tree along the back fence.

Every once in a while, she'd be  Annie Oakley with me, skulking around corners, snapping caps in the handguns we pulled from our holsters.  There were lots of silver stars involved, on our chests and decorating our accoutrements, which at times included vests with fringe.  She and the other big kids in the neighborhood would always play Red Light, Green Light and Red Rover across our front lawns. 

But mostly, she was an indoor mouse.

And what wonders were in her house.  4pm every afternoon it was Million Dollar Movie, sitting on the floor in front of her tv, watching old movies, the same ones over and over and it didn't matter because it was something nobody else was doing..... at least nobody I knew.  She was three years older and so much wiser, at least about certain things. 

I learned to read Seventeen magazine from the back page, where the new nail polish colors appeared. I don't remember ever coloring our nails together, but I remember the joy she took in painting hers. She introduced me to The Paperback Bookstore in Rockville Center, the first bookstore I ever loved, and to the notion of books in series, starting with Nancy Drew, then Sue Barton, Student Nurse; and others lost to the decades.  

She and her mother were ferocious knitters.  Everything they made fit perfectly and was exquisitely stylish, and looked perfect on their tiny frames..... at least that's how it seemed to me.  I wore her hand me downs, including the green and purple plaid plastic rain coat that I disliked with every fiber of my being.  She was an Information Operator one summer; I had a secret way to reach her.  

I visited her once, in college where I met her boyfriend's roommate.  We had a brief but torrid romance, for which I was too young and he was too serious.  And now that I think about it, it was my Spring Break and it could be 50 years ago this very week that she let me into her grown up world.  

She married the boyfriend under the tree between our yards; he was always just perfect for her. 

We grew up.  We saw less and less of one another.  But dad's as always, whether at her' dad's pre-funeral birthday party in New York or a family wedding in LA, though years had passed, nothing between us had changed.  We picked up right where we left off.  She was always just there, in the background, a presence, my Cousin. 

And today, she died.

She'd been sick then she got sicker and now she's gone.

I've spent all afternoon finding myself out there in the backyard, staring into their sunroom, seeing her read and knit and watch us run around under the sprinklers.  There are lots and lots of memories.  

There won't be any more.