Laid Bare: Essays and Observations, Judson, Tom [best self help books to read .TXT] 📗

chorus of German and English voices. I asked where everyone had gone and was told, “But, it is the Scirocco!” Like an actor making a well-rehearsed entrance, the fabled wind from North Africa had arrived perfectly on schedule bringing with it a faint hint of spice and mystery as well as a never-ceasing breeze. It rose and fell in intensity, but never, ever stopped.

On my last night there I had dinner and drank too much wine. As I wandered back to the hotel, I tried to think of anything but the task ahead.

In the months since Bruce died, I had found myself completely at the mercy of my emotions, so I wasn’t sure how this scene would play out. When the last of Bruce’s ashes had drifted down to the sea, would I throw myself after them? Or would I collapse like a puddle onto the terra cotta tiles and have to be helped to my room as the hotel staff whispered about “the sad, sad Americano”?

I walked across the lobby and pushed open the heavy glass doors of the terrace. There were one or two couples leaning against the wall nearby, so I found a secluded, dimly lit spot out of their sight.

I reached inside my jacket and reluctantly took the packet out of my breast pocket. The ashes had remained—literally—close to my heart since I had boarded the Alitalia flight at JFK two weeks before. I was not terribly anxious to let them go now. The moon shone plaintively on the water, and I tried focusing on its liquid reflection to maintain my composure. As I opened the envelope and poured the ashes into my palm, I whispered a few words of love and remembrance. “Well, Bruce, I guess we made it to Capri after all,” I thought. I brought my hand to my mouth and kissed the closed fingers before drawing my hand back over my head. I mustered all my strength and resolve as I threw.

And then the Scirocco seized control of the moment: a whoosh of air blew the ashes up and over my head. They were caught in the blazing lights below the terrace and transformed into a spray of stars. I might as well call it what it was: my husband was circling overhead in a cloud of fairy dust. After dancing in the air for a few moments, the ashes blew giddily away into the night.

I stood there open-mouthed, transfixed.

What made them shimmer so? Was it Bruce’s silvery laugh? His sparkling smile? Most likely it was just flecks of bone and tissue. But it brought from deep inside me a sound that might best be described as the marriage of a sob and a chuckle.

And that perfectly timed gust of wind? I suspect that was Bruce laughing at my solemnity and forcing me to see the moment as something wondrous. He robbed me of a good cry that night but never has a victim submitted so gladly to a thief’s demand. I wanted to cry out, “Grah! Grah!”

I have not been back to Capri since that night eight years ago. But, when I do I’ll stand gazing out over the moonlit sea and listen for Bruce’s distant laugh in the warm, faint breath of the Scirocco.

A NOTE ON SOURCES

This volume was assembled after repeated requests from readers for a compendium of my essays, which were scattered among many sources and publications. For those who are interested, the original sources are listed below.

They’re Playing Our Song

The Beauty Curse

The Church of Me

Norman Rae

---Unzipped Magazine

Tradewinds

Did You Have View?

---Saba blog

Houses of Worship

An Empty Bowl

Little Miss Indian Giver

Him and His Shadow

Recounting the Abbottts

Cicciolina, Miss America and Me

Come Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are

The House Painter

Panhandle Manhandle

Rattlesnakes Have Been Observed

We Shall Come Rejoicing

My Huckleberry Friends

So That We May Bring You

Shoplifting Fire

Vino e Cucina

Oysters, Rockefeller?

So, This Guy Checks In To A Hospital...

Winds From the South

---Gus’s Soapbox

Rigatoni With Sausage and Fennel

September 25, 1 A.M.

---Gus Mattox blog

The Longest Mile

All We Owe Iowa

---Tom Judson blog

A Million Men

---Blue Magazine

Howard, We Hardly Knew Ye

---Equity News