by Judson, Tom
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