I remember when the kids used to jump off of the bridge at Sandy Hook. The cheering from the crowd with each release, as we all waited for the Red Bank bus. Sunburns and beer buzz and beach bags in tow.
I remember all of my phone numbers as a kid. It is obviously my super power. 842.3149 we had for the longest time at 52 Hubbard. 617-5787 was part of our DNA. And the 5782 was the “emergency line”. Oh, and answering machines.
I remember your purple Ralph Lauren sweater. You had this in every color, but this was the one that was left. I put my face in it to visit you. It was already faded, but it was a potent remnant and reminder. It smelled like you had just left the room.
I remember when she came to the house with the bakery box from Brooklyn. You don’t know me she said, holding the string up in her nervous hand, voice trembling too, but your mom taught me how to wear red lipstick.
I remember when you seemed too tired to keep going in the mall. We always held hands. And that is the best part in my memory. I can’t think of anything we ever bought that stands out, except the boots from JC Penney that broke, and a few cool things from Spencer’s. I think that was the day when I realized you were getting older.
I remember going to Grand Central and seeing the big book. People were winding their way around the velvet ropes, waiting on line there, in silence. It was a book of remembrance for Jackie Kennedy, someone whispered. It was not too long after you had passed away. That she did. I wrote a note to her children, hoping that they knew that no matter how famous she was, that it was still just their mom. I always say that losing a mom at any age, and no matter her world-class status, it is always so hard. And I was sorry. I also hoped like hell that my mom was with Jackie that day.