Author Archives

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Ghosts and Legends

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I debated whether or not to attend–was the effort of braving the elements worth keeping the streak alive. I’ve had the ticket stashed in my armoire for a month. Bright sun would have been a convenient excuse but just my luck–gloom and fog have shrouded the city since dawn.

Technology can do some amazing things. Kids point in awe to banners of heroes in the Great Hall as they turn from brilliant color to the black and white images of years past. I saw Gehrig and Ruth with my own eyes. Back then the grass was just as green, the sky a more vivid blue than anyone remembers and a three-tiered ballpark truly felt like a cathedral.

The field across the street is a lovely tribute but my heart aches for the old stadium–not the 1970’s refurbished version, though that had it’s moments too. I’m thinking of the original Yankee Stadium built in 1923 on the site of an old goat pasture. If one looks closely–squints in the rain–the building is still there, veiled in layers of grey, lights twinkling, ground shaking with the roar of the crowd.

Those limestone walls screamed and fought back when they were torn apart. Their wails still echo, trapped between the rocks of the bluff and swirling currents of the river. Torture for those cursed to hear them for eternity but precious history for the handful that still survive.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Ghosts and Legends…all eyes on the prize.

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Flowers of the Forest

The only musical instrument ever outlawed as a weapon of war.

This April evening sent the skirl of bagpipes bouncing through the canyons of Manhattan. Here in the States, pipes are played for parades, weddings and funerals but for me, the prelude of the drone sends me back to our Highland castle ruin. In those complex days of heartbreak and renaissance, my greatest savior was the evening ritual of the pipes.

Alone on a desolate moor, dressed in full clan regalia, the soloist plays from his heart, driven by the sheer power of the harmony and his love of the ancient earth. All civilization pauses, spellbound and silent in reverence. Legend tells of brave pipers that inspired soldiers to battle and instilled dread of certain death in their enemies.

I feel for a foreigner’s terror–the pipes stir my soul to the core–pulling me back to the days of the blood forest, our biggest gambles and greatest accomplishments.

My family home, my roots, our healing sanctuary.

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Missing my garden

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New York City bodegas amaze me. Anything and everything you could possibly need–24/7, including a bouquet in a pinch. I can’t help but stop and enjoy fresh cut flowers spilling onto the sidewalk. The scents draw me like a magnet but nothing nearly as strong as my favorite, Night Jasmine.

Queen of the Night.

The call of the elusive flower is one my first memories of New Orleans–that and the humidity. Scent so light it carries for blocks, but so heavy it lingers in the back of my throat where I can taste it for hours.

I’m sure my private garden at home has run wild–again–the fragrance must be overwhelming. That’s the thing about Jasmine–you can walk by it all day and not smell a thing, but when it blooms, in the dead of the night, you can’t escape the magic.

Home in twenty days.

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Natural born perfection

The royal families claim it doesn’t exist in nature. They say perfection has to be genetically engineered or meticulously bred from potent bloodlines–but we proved them wrong.

Turning Martin was necessary and justified and maybe a bit selfish, but most importantly, it was his choice. Freedom to choose is a rare commodity in this world. He embraced the change, all of it, the civilized and the repulsive, the cravings that bring all vampires to their knees and the ecstasy we chase for eternity.

Martin’s company has kept me sane these years. I suspect he’s taken better care of me than I have of him.

His music, the lyrics, his piano–that piano–resonate like no other. Even in the solitude of his private studio, far from the bright lights, screaming crowds and drama of the stage, Martin’s talent is unmatched.

A genius, a master and a link to my past…our past…that I’ll defend as long as I live.

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My one thing…

Before we left on our voyage, the one luxury I couldn’t live without was lipstick. Back then, browsing through the French Market with Charmaine, I thought that choosing between five shades of pink was overwhelming. Now, a stroll through any Manhattan makeup department is almost too much to absorb–and I’m only focused on lipstick. And stain, and gloss.
Dizzying.
Is ordering one of everything over the top? Probably, but too bad, because that’s what I did.
Hundreds of tubes and pots in every color and hue, spread around me on my huge bed.
Decadent.
Armed with a fistful of lipstick brushes and a stack of tissues, I spent all night trying on one after the other. Pink is history. The colors I love are closer to my natural blue-ish tint that I’ve spent years trying to disguise.
All night.
The verdict; stain lasts longer, lip pencils are my personal revolution and the color of choice is…wait for it…Venom.
Perfect.

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I remember those nights

You were here once, but you’re gone now. The cold, flat emptiness of the streets is a dead giveaway. I just need to take the hint and move on.

Tonight, I made the acquaintance of an older gentleman who organizes estate sales for a living. We met at the counter of a tiny diner, not the cleanest place in the world but the atmosphere is comforting. I bought him a cup of coffee. Now, it wasn’t Morning Call or Raimond’s signature blend–but it was tasty enough.
We spent hours talking–imagine that. Everyone used to tease me about how my elderly patients became chatterboxes around me. Well–I’ve still got the gift.
My new friend gave me a chance to preview his current project, an event at one of those charming Brownstones.
The boxes were dusty and crumbling but the best finds are usually at the bottom of the pile. The couple who lived there must have loved the arts. Poster, playbills, musical scores–all signed and dedicated. Their collection was extensive and it seems such a tragedy to sell it off in pieces. I wish I could have heard their stories, carried their memories forever, added their history to our archives.

I bought two posters, rescued them from the dirty basement. They brought memories slamming back, like it was yesterday–JazzFest, 1970. I met Mahalia Jackson, remember? It was a relaxed, local festival in those days, not the wild bash it is today.

I think…no wait–I know. I need to go home.
I’m taking the hint.

 

 

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Scotch. I still don’t get it.

They all drank Scotch. The royal ones, the powerful ones, the old ones.  I could never stand the taste. Ridiculous, when I think about what I do drink.

I can’t stomach tequila–too many bad memories–mostly of an impulsive climb and how close I came to smashing every bone in my body.  A saint saved me. He saved me so many times, I can’t even count.

I’m thoroughly bored by wine, all of it. Every glass is like the one before and the next to come. I guess grapes are grapes.  I don’t touch Port–too many memories of you, lover. The one and only sip I took made me feel as if I would shatter in a million pieces.

So, I’ve made it my mission to learn to like Scotch. All these flavors I’m supposed to taste, ginger, vanilla, cinnamon…and clove. Hard to taste anything if I’m holding my nose just to get it down. The promise of the cloves is what drives me to keep trying.

Sip, swirl, smile. I’ll get it eventually.

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My first home

I’ve spent the better part of this miserable winter wandering the streets of New York, battling snow and wind. I remember seasons of storms, bitter chill and ice but this year? The worst of them all.

The apartment building I lived in still stands and 3C is occupied. Not much has changed, a coat of paint and a new carpet. The stair treads are still the same though, worn in the middle by countless pairs of shoes. Mine. Mom’s.

Our old apartment door is painted a cheerful lavender. Standing in the hall I could hear music and children’s laughter. At least there’s happiness inside those walls again. They certainly saw their fair share of sadness.

In my mind I could see Mom in her nursing uniform, like it was yesterday, gliding down the hall, arms piled high with groceries and flowers to make her little girl feel like a fairly tale Princess.

And I did–feel like a Princess.

I’ve been a real Princess since, but never with the innocence and joy that I felt in 3C.

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Where has the time gone?

March 20th.  Not my birthday or our wedding date or even the anniversary of my death, but a landmark on my–our calendar of eternity.  Seventy eight years ago, tonight.

Since I signed my name in the book, since it was sealed in blood, my blood and another’s, so much has happened.  Loss and love–triumph and tragedy–love and more loss.

The air was heavy and deep, rumbles of thunder still echoed across the lake when your graceful fingers coaxed magic from a borrowed violin. The old city walls absorbed those notes and melodies, sending echoes through castles of the living and canyons of the dead.

I thought it was over that night–the torment. My happily ever after had arrived.  Not even close.

I’ve searched for you for years, across mountains and oceans, through gardens and ruins. Everywhere we’ve been and everywhere we dreamed of going.

My love, light of my life, whenever or wherever you read these pages, just know I’m still your Angel.

Love always,

Sorcha