I saw her strolling, her golden blonde hair picking up the late afternoon light. She had an ice cream cone in one hand, a Chanel purse, the other.
I remember trips to the Met, sated in Renoirs, Lunch of the Boating Party her favorite, descending down those great steps. buying cones from the Mr. Softee man parked at the curb.
She’d get a double cherry dip, while I had mine straight, never failing to drip some on whatever I was wearing making her laugh.
We’d then meander down the Ave., looking in all the windows, picking and choosing what we’d buy if we had that kind of money.
She had alimony from her long time husband who abused her so much, she didn’t even want it, saving it for her young sons their father neglected.
She co-owned a travel agency with two good friends, loving planning trips she had no desire to take. She loved New York so much, said she felt like a fish out of water whenever she’d leave it.
We first met at the dry cleaners when she was picking up one of her beloved raincoats. She liked walking in the rain, happy and content, the air at its sweetest, she’d say, wrapped in a Burberry.
I sent her a card that said…she was so special, that they named a month after her.
When I saw her today, that cherry dip a dead giveaway, I had to rub my eyes and look again remembering, June died of cancer over 20 years ago.
But it was her, I could have sworn it was her, and it did look like rain.
Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1881)