I watched her throw it away without even realizing that’s what she was doing. I think about her often. I write about her often. What’s she doing? How does she feel? Does she think about me? Maybe. Or maybe she’s so far gone she doesn’t even remember my name or my face. I remember hers. Model material. Her want for magazine living was irritating at times, but we all supported her. She never made it to New York or Hollywood, well, once, for a visit, but Marilyn Monroe didn’t have flowers and the smog was too thick to catch a glimpse of those famous white letters stationed on a hill. The Pacific was gray and the stars were in hiding. We came back home, and that was the last of our travels.
February 21, 2005