It was about 7:30 Friday evening when I learned Anne had died. I was at the base of the World War II Memorial, and an Omaha Beach veteran was on his way to meet me for an interview. The sun was setting, and the city was about to get one of its frequent summer showers.
Sarah's name popped up on my cell.
"Well, the reason I'm calling ... "
I knew before she'd said anything. In a flash, I saw Anne dancing on our gray Casbah carpet to Prince's greatest hits, her head bobbing, her body whipping around, her lips pouting wet lipstick kisses. Anne's sing-along was always loud, hit the high notes, and inspired me to watch more than perform, to make room for the real pro.
"You don't have to be beautiful, to be my girl!"
She was around when we were still using our training wheels for how to be sexy young women. Sure, we knew to buy bottles of wine and share it over giggles and gossip. But we usually bought gallons of Ernest & Julio and coupled it with Lay's potato chips.
She was ahead of the pack in that regard. She wore heels. High, chunky ones. She was fashionably daring when most of us couldn't be bothered to change T-shirts.
"Are you Tara?" the old man asked me.
"Sarah, I have to go, my vet is here."
I was yanked back from the Casbah and back onto the Memorial pavement. Back to hear another story of a life lived fully. Of risks taken, of friends lost before their time. My eyes were tearing up, and the veteran's family wasn't quite sure what to make of it; maybe they thought they had someone along who understood.
It started to rain. We ducked under the Atlantic Arch and they unfolded the original letter from Gen. Dwight D. Eisenhower that the veteran had received right before launching into the English Channel.
"Oh my gosh, look! A rainbow!"
And it was. It was Anne's rainbow. It arched beyond the Memorial, stretching across the Mall and into the heart of Washington. I said it out loud, softly: "Anne's rainbow." I felt peace.
She wasn't quite done with me for the day, though. That Friday night, I met up with another friend who'd received bad news. I had not yet had a moment alone to cry for Anne.
Finally, about 11 p.m., I started the drive home. My Jeep windows were rolled down. And in my first moment alone, Prince hit 99.5.
"You don't have to be beautiful to turn me on."
I cranked it up all the way home.
| « | (index) | » |