The end of the Cissy times as we knew them

Today is the last day that anyone who knew or loved Cissy Taylor will set foot in her Manchester, N.H. condo – the site of countless Derby Day parties, Christmas Eve “orphan” gatherings and other occasions of gaiety and good will. Her brother Richard, executor of her estate, closes on the condo this morning and – after seven months of valiantly executing her wishes – leaves for the long drive back to Ruskin, Fla. Last night, five of us took him out to dinner to thank him and wish him well. Suddenly, it all seems so final. I looked around the table last night at the well-wishers gathered there and thought about how it is so often one person who glues a group together, who brings them face to face when they otherwise might never meet, and Cissy was the one who united all of us present. And I thought about how easy it would be to lose touch with those good people now that she is gone. And how that would be an insult to her memory and a loss for each of us. Several of us exchanged contact information and vowed we would not let that happen. I hope we don’t. So, Godspeed, Richard, and to all of Cissy’s friends, hope to see you soon.

Toasting Cissy's 65th birthday

     Cissy would have turned 65 yesterday. It was the first time in our long years of friendship I didn’t take her out to dinner to celebrate.
     I still can’t believe she’s gone.
     I didn’t know what to do to mark the occasion, so on the way home from work I stopped at a Derry liquor store and bought some Maker’s Mark, her favorite brand of whiskey.
     Then when I got home, Rick and I lit a candle in front of a photo of her, me and another friend, Beth, got out some Kentucky Derby shot glasses we had won at one or another of her many Derby parties, poured ourselves a shot, toasted her and drank.
     It was nasty good.
     This Saturday, on Kentucky Derby Day, when we would all be at her house partying if the world had not changed so dramatically and impossibly three weeks ago, we may do the same.
     Hope you’ll join us.

Grief and guilt

One of the things I know about grief is that guilt often accompanies and complicates it. And I had been carrying both since Cissy died.
     There’s the “what if” variety of guilt – what if I had gotten there earlier,  what if I had called her on Easter as I had been planning to, what if, what if…
     And there’s the deeper, heavier, regretful guilt that can weigh on you like a stone.
     Sometimes, if she had said something that I found hurtful, I would avoid seeing Cissy for a week or two. I would be mad at her from afar, sitting with my own poison. And then I would get over it and give her a call, as I did the Tuesday before we found her, when I left a message asking her to come to dinner, not knowing she was dead just feet from the phone.
     Sometimes, I felt an absurd competitiveness with her over who was the better journalist/camper/whatever, as if we couldn’t both possess the same gifts.
     And sometimes, I was just too swept up in my own life to think about her, or think to call, or include her in my plans. I have wondered if I could have been a better friend.
     Then last night, her brother Richard came for dinner and handed me something he had found in a box in Cissy’s bedroom, not realizing what a gift he was giving me or how he was putting my guilt to rest.
     It was a photograph taken several years ago when Cissy and I and another friend, Beth, went away for the weekend to Ogunquit, Maine where the public garbage pails were painted and named. The photo shows the three of us standing in front of one such pail, laughing in the sun, each with a hand on the pail.
     Painted across the pail is a single word: “Forgiveness.”
     I swear, I think she sent it.