To Life

Just when I thought the week of September 11th, 2001 couldn’t get any worse, the phone rang.

It was Heather. Before she spoke, or perhaps while she was speaking, my thoughts shot back to a place I once called home. Only two train stops before the PATH leading right into Manhattan — over the river but truly a New York suburb, as are so many of the towns dotting the exits of the Garden State Parkway above Exit 9.

She still lived in this cozy bedroom community where then-husband and I started our married life. It was the place we’d moved from seven years before and had never again visited. Although Heather and I were fast friends since the time our babies, born only one-day apart, were eight weeks old, we rarely spoke after my family moved from the area. Actually I think when she called that day we probably hadn’t spoken in two or three years.

“Do you remember Doug Cherry?” she asked.

It wasn’t really a question.

Of course I did. He played golf with then-husband. Their little girl was one year younger than my son. Our dogs romped playfully together in the park on Sunday mornings. Doug’s wife and I were good friends - through a mutual friend. We all spent time together doing the suburban new parent, dog-owner things. Whether someone was climbing up a playground or corporate ladder, it didn’t matter, we jelled.

Doug and his wife gave us our first gift when we moved into our new home - a charming 75 year old Cape-Cod with colonial blue shutters, meticulously placed on a heavily taxed 50×50 lot. They showed up at the door with a wrapped package — a set of four wine glasses. We were so touched. It was such a grown up thing, to receive wine glasses from friends, we thought. We would have them over for dinner, we agreed. And we did.

And when we were ready to embark on a cross-country move, they bid us fond farewell with a barbeque send off in their backyard amidst mutual friends. It was a lovely good-bye from friends we intended to keep. As we all know, intentions are only as good as the actions used to back them up.

“He was in Tower Two.”

Now it was personal.

Not only did I picture their little family’s picket fence corner lot home, but familiar streets lined with funeral processions. In my mind’s eye I saw abandoned cars in the train station parking lot. And in addition I now saw a face - and heard a voice - that had been part of my life. I pictured the family that I continued to know through Christmas cards without their staunch and smiling provider. I pictured a happy, lively woman my age as a beleaguered, grieving widow who now had three small children, eight and younger.

“Almost every child at school has lost someone,” Heather added.

I was glad I didn’t live there anymore.

I never heard from Heather again - nor did I ever try to contact her. If I did, I don’t remember.

What I do remember is that even amidst the isolation I felt during this time I was glad I had something to hold onto. I had a tangible personal tribute that had been left in my charge. It was something to touch, and use, to honor the memory of someone who walked not only through my life but was had actually been a part of it for a short time.

I had the wine glasses.

And I still do.

Well, I have two of the four wine glasses, as that’s the way things go with divorce.

Every Jewish holiday, and every Thanksgiving, when I pull out the linens and china, the silver and crystal, I set one special glass carefully at the head of the table just for me. I feel honored to have a piece of Doug in my family. I remember his kind and friendly and gracious personality when I see and use these goblets that are destined to remain the family heirlooms they have become. Before our meal I remind my children where the glasses came from. I tell a story of a short but delightful friendship to whomever graces our table.

And then I say, “L’Chaim” which means “To Life.”

I needn’t say anything else.

Amy also blogs at Your Jewish Mother and Kvetch Blog. This piece is cross-posted.