about yesterday

Eighty three years ago yesterday the world gained Bob Barker, while little Frankie Sinatra celebrated his eighth birthday. Six years ago yesterday my husband lost his favorite cousin and birthday buddy, Kate. Her lifelong battle with cystic fibrosis ended two short months after her name came to the top of the organ donor list. While I absolutely suck at remembering most dates (especially if they're in September), December 12th is burned into my brain.

And yet all day I was unable to blog about it. Only now, with the freedom of having another 364 days to go, do I find myself back at my keyboard, telling the story I should have told yesterday.

Kate was significantly younger than my husband and, though their affections ran deep, they seldom had a chance to relate to each other as adults. It was the occasion of her sister's wedding that brought the three of us together, bonding over a bottle of tequila. I could commiserate with Kate's position as sister of the bride, having been one just a few years before. Kate's bridesmaid dress was WAY cuter than mine. Mine was, I kid you not, compared to wallpaper by fellow shoppers who found its twin in a discount clothing store. But Kate never wore a dress in real life so hers was arguably more traumatic. Immediately after the wedding she pulled on a pair of jeans and the three of us sought out a quiet spot to toast the happy couple.

I knew early on I had no prayer of keeping pace with my husband and his hard drinking cousin. It is for this reason, perhaps, that I remember the night most clearly. Even so, it comes back to me in highlights:

Sitting on the steps being swarmed by strange Vegas bugs, surprised to learn that Kate has taken to smoking cigarettes with her relatively worthless lungs. Erik, ordinarily more of a pacifist, squashing the bugs vehemently with her shoe in return for his cousin's promise to stop smoking in the future.

Kate's head landing on the carpeted casino floor after Erik unsuccessfully tried to invert her tiny body. The two of them collapsing, laughing, at the persistence of gravity.

Secrets exchanged revealed a life well lived. Each professed a profound affection for the other.

Security shushing us (apparently even Vegas has its limits), ushering us away from the pool area.

Walking her to her room, Kate returning to the hallway, laughing, demanding to know what we were laughing about, insisting it was probably her. Kate, realizing as the door closed behind her that she was locked out, inspiring us to laugh at her. All of us laughing as she was forced to wake her already disturbed roommate.

The next morning, at the check out desk, Kate showing up fresh as a daisy to wish us farewell. Erik, his stomach contents curdling on the floor in the corners of our bathroom, marveled at his cousin's perkiness. Even having drank the least, I was somewhere in between, also awed by the wonders of youth.

Erik and Kate's family are fortunate to have a lifetime of other memories to cherish, even though some life times are too short. I am personally grateful to have this one grand evening in September (the 27th - I had to look it up) to remember. I love how Kate is still alive in her family, with them in their stories. And I'm amazed at how she shows up now and again in unexpected places - her father finding her handwriting on a bookmark pressed between the pages of an old book. I'm lucky to know little about loss and I'm luckier still to have known Kate.