Thursday, April 27, 2006
Cristina's Dress
Pompano Beach, 1993-1996. A week after moving into the Post Crossing apartment complex, I was at my door, with some dresses I had just picked up at Loehmann's slung over my shoulder, when I first spotted my next door neighbor. I have much to say about this lovely lady, who passed away on March 11, 2006. Let me begin my tale by telling you about
Cristina's Dress
Some time during November 8, 1999, I’d found myself abstractedly packing for a farewell journey of my own. My mother had had a stroke; I was about to get on a plane from DC down to Miami for what at some very deep level I knew would be for a very long time.
What to pack? What to pack? I kept asking myself. Into CP Shades at the time, I threw every linen pant, jacket, and shirt, and every short-sleeved knit, I had into my suitcase. November in Florida, after all, was a very different beast from one in the nation’s capital.
Almost everything was black. Not out of mourning, but, just because, to my then forty-five year old mind, I’d finally learned how to dress. So of course I also had a suitable black dress that could double as…no, I didn’t want to think about that at the time. A DKNY short-sleeved knit, with Donna Karan’s signature built-in body suit, I plopped it into the suitcase.
The next day I began my new life.
Cristina was among the few with whom I spoke on a regular basis over the next few weeks, during the watching and waiting on the sidelines, oh so difficult, that almost everyone has to go through at least once in a lifetime.
I agreed to visit her. After I’d left Pompano in 1996, she’d even surprised me with phone calls while I was in Ithaca, and I’d visited her in her new apartment at Post Crossing after her son had remarried. However, I’d had to cancel at least one visit, due to—no other way to put it—difficult visits with my mother.
She’d understood, though I’m sure she wished it were otherwise. Ana and Cristina had met in 1993. Cristina had really liked my mother, calling her, “a real lady.”
It wasn’t until my June 1999 visit with Mami that I finally had a peaceful visit with her. (This, however, belongs to another piece, at another time…)
Pine Crest was still holding its holiday alumni reunion parties at the Mai-Kai at the time. In the midst of my grief, shock, and pain—they were taking turns, at the time—I, somehow, said yes to this function, which was being held about three and a half weeks after my mother’s November 28 passing.
So right before Christmas, 1999, I put on my black dress, stockings, my ubiquitous Mary Janes, and—oh, yes—a necklace. I’d managed to pack an Impostors multi-tiered small-beaded black number in my suitcase, too.
I headed up to Pompano in my spanking-new red Jetta, dressed all in black, partly out of mourning, and partly out of…what?
Visiting Cristina first, she was pleased to see me all dressed up. She found the dress flattering; the necklace, the perfect complement to the outfit.
“You should always wear this black dress when you go out. You’ll never go wrong in it,” she said, her voice rising with knowing glee.
Truth is, I’d wanted to see her, but I hadn’t been sure about the Mai-Kai. She talked me into it, though: I went, and I had a fair enough time.
Since then, my black staple has more often than not been this black dress. Cristina’s Dress.
For the complement to mourning is life.
And this is what my friend and former neighbor, Cristina Urzua Bernsley, tried to teach me throughout our thirteen years of friendship.
Rest In Peace, Dear Friend
Thursday, April 13, 2006
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