I hope this is a crisper version, and integration of the original and first edit. I really hope. Thank you all so much, you taught me so much.

Make Over
(second rewrite 2/3/09)

I have seen you in dreams.
You are young and beautiful,
sitting in a car, giggling with your date
in front of your building,
off Fifth,
waiting for alternate side parking to end,
having martinis that you brought down on a tray.

I still grab at the moment, the one in my mind,
where I can see you laughing,
tossing the perfectly cut curls, white teeth surrounded by red lips—
a color by Esteé Lauder.
You are wearing your two-tone,
Baume and Mercier watch,
The one you debated about, not sure if you deserved,
bought with inheritance money
your father left.
Your father, who left.

You would have been
sixty
this January seventeeth,
instead you are keeping your father company in a grave yard
in Hampton Connecticut, on a hill
near the farm.
And so, since you were forty,
I haven’t seen you,
but I hear you talking to me all the time,
I know you are standing behind me
pushing me when I hesitate
guiding me around curves.

Your friend, Claudia,
has taught me to see you in miracles.
After you left us,
a rainbow appeared outside her door.
The electricity in her house rebelled, for days
when she entered the room,
flashing for no reason: messages,
we hoped.

And then the rainbows followed me
as birthday gifts,
as signs of strength when
I was in need,
as a reminder to be joyous,
as you were
when you sang,
You Are My Sunshine.

It was July, 1989
when you came to visit;
I see us standing, talking
in front of the post office
on Main Street, in Flushing,
where you became the keeper of my secrets.
Now you know all secrets.

We walked to Stern’s
for Shiseido makeovers.
and the woman behind the counter said,
I bet with your coloring, you wear
a lot of navy blue.
She covered your ruddy, healthy face
with the paleness of the moon,
removing all traces of sun,
and your black hair shone like a
background for stars.
Your face faded into porcelain and
I looked at you
and knew:
you were going to die.

Weeks later.

Why would you,
a marathon runner in your prime,
single, New York lady,
who grew up with milk cows,
why would you get on that plane?
Why would you work so hard all summer
and then choose to go so far?

How could you
sit for so many hours aloft,
with your marathon runner friend,
and alight in Sydney for a vacation,
while I watched Arsenio Hall
and changed diapers on Cape Cod?

How could you get off a plane,
go to a hotel,
leave your bags,
go out for a walk
at 7:30 a.m.?

How could you
stand at a corner, on an empty street,
waiting to cross?
How could a car plow into a parked car?
And,
how could a parked car pick you up and take you home?

I need to know if you are fine.

I have no more words,
I am out of phrases, I am bereft of sentences.
My heart can only muster questions.

I went to your apartment
to help pick out your clothes
for the event that would bring two hundred people together.
You were their best friend.
Sarah was already there,
she opened the door and the smell of flowers
invited me in,
but there were none to be seen.

We searched like robbers to remove valuables,
we couldn’t decide if you should wear
the white suit with the floral blouse,
or the running suit with your Avias.
I thought you should be comfortable,
you still had a lot of running to do.

When I went into the bathroom
It was as though you had just come in;
like you were about to step into the shower,
breathing,
sweating,
glowing, from a run.
Your bra was hanging behind the bathroom door,
on the knob.

Sitting quietly on the sink
was the Shiseido face cream we bought
just a few weeks before.
I opened it.
It had been touched once.
I could see the print
clearly; it was suspended in the pink gel
as though one finger was gingerly
testing the waters, not yet ready to jump in.

Several black hairs were lying akimbo in the sink,
others were twisted and coiled,
trapped in your brush.

You left in such a hurry.

I saw myself in your mirror.
I knew somewhere,
someone was telling you,
you look great in navy.

________________________________________ For reference:
Original

You would be
fifty three
on January 17,
instead you are keeping
your father company in a grave yard
in Hampton Connecticut, on a hill
near the farm.
And so, since you were forty,
I haven’t seen you,
but I hear you talking to me all the time,
I know you are standing behind me
pushing me when I hesitate
guiding me around curves.
I have seen you in dreams.
You are young and beautiful, caring for those
you once taught
who, like you, were stolen or kidnapped by time.

Claudia has taught me to see you in miracles.
After you left us,
a rainbow appeared outside her door.
The electricity in her house rebelled, for days,
when she entered the room,
flashing for no reason: messages,
we hoped.
And then the rainbows followed me
as birthday gifts,
as signs of strength when
I was in need,
as a reminder to be joyous,
as you were
when you sang,
You Are My Sunshine.

It is July, 1989:
I see us standing
in front of the Post Office
on Main Street, in Flushing
where you became the keeper of my secrets.
Now you know all secrets.
We walked to Stern’s
for Shiseido “makeovers”
and the woman said,
“I bet with your coloring, you wear
a lot of navy blue.”
She covered your ruddy, healthy face
with the paleness of the moon,
removing all traces of sun,
and your black hair shone like a
background for stars.
I looked at you
and knew:
you were going to die.

Why would you,
a marathon runner in your prime,
single New York lady,
who grew up with milk cows,
why would you get on that plane?
Why would you, lover of love,
who would bring your date a tray of martinis
as he sat in the car in front of your building,
waiting for the end of “alternate side,”
why would you work so hard all summer
and long for Tasmania?
How could you
sit for so many hours aloft,
with your marathon-friend,
and alight in Sydney for a vacation,
while I watched Arsenio Hall
and changed diapers
on Cape Cod?
How could you get off a plane,
go to a hotel,
leave your stuff,
go out for a walk
at 7:30 a.m.?
How could you
stand at a corner, on an empty street,
waiting to cross?
How could a car plow into a parked car?
And,
how could a parked car pick you up and take you home?
I need to know if you are fine.

I went to your apartment
in the village to pick up your clothes
for the event that would bring two hundred people together.
You were their best friend.
Sarah answered the door
and the smell of flowers
invited me in,
but there were none to be seen.
We searched like robbers to remove valuables,
we couldn’t decide if you should wear
the white suit or
the running suit with your Avias;
I thought you should be comfortable,
you still had a lot of running to do.
When I went into the bathroom
your underwear was still hanging on the hook
behind the door,
and on the knob,
like you were about to come in from a run.
On the sink was the
Shiseido face cream we bought just a few weeks before.
When I opened it
I could see your finger print.
Several black hairs were in the sink.
And I know somewhere,
someone is telling you
you look great in navy.

________________________________________________________

First rewrite

Makeover  **
(edited 1/26/09)

I have seen you in dreams.
You are young and beautiful,
sitting in a car, giggling with your date
in front of your building,
off Fifth,
waiting for alternate side parking to end,
having martinis that you brought down on a tray.

I still grab at the moment, the one in my mind,
where I can see you laughing,
tossing the perfectly cut curls,
white teeth surrounded by red lips—
a color by Esteé Lauder.
You are wearing your two-tone,
Baume and Mercier watch,
The one you debated about, not sure if you deserved,
bought with inheritance money
your father left.
Your father, who left.

It was July, 1989.
You came to visit by subway.
Exited at Main Street, Flushing.
We walked to Stern’s
for Shiseido “makeovers.”

The woman at the counter said,
“I bet with your coloring, you wear
a lot of navy blue.”
She covered your ruddy, healthy, face
with the paleness of the moon,
removing all traces of sun,
and your hair shone like a
background for stars.

I looked at you.
I knew.

A month later,
I watched Arsenio Hall
and changed diapers
on Cape Cod,
while you got off a plane,
checked into a hotel,
then out for a walk,
somewhere in Sydney
at 7:30 AM.
Moments later,
you were standing at a corner,
on an empty street,
waiting to cross,
and were hit by a car—
that was parked.

I have no more words, phrases, or sentences.
Only questions.

I went to your apartment
in the village to pick up your clothes
for the event that would bring
two hundred people together;
you were their best friend.
The smell of flowers
embraced me, invited me in,
but there were none.
I searched like a thief to remove valuables,
and couldn’t decide if you should wear
the white suit or
the running clothes with your Avias;
I thought you should be comfortable,
you still had a lot of running to do.

It was as though you had just come in;
like you were about to step into the shower,
breathing,
sweating,
glowing, from a run.
Your bra was hanging
behind the bathroom door,
on the knob.

Sitting quietly on the sink
was the Shiseido face cream we bought
just a few weeks before.
I opened it.
It had been touched once.
I could see the print
clearly; it was suspended in the pink gel
as though one finger was gingerly
testing the waters, not yet ready to jump in.

Several black hairs were lying akimbo in the sink,
others were twisted and coiled,
trapped in your brush.

You left in such a hurry.

I saw myself in your mirror.

I knew somewhere,
someone was telling you,
you look great in navy.

I just knew.

reply sweetpotatoqueen wrote on Feb 3, ’09 Well done my friend!

reply aimlessjoys wrote on Feb 3, ’09 Very nicely combined into one.  Lovely!

reply sanssouciblogs wrote on Feb 3, ’09 sweetpotatoqueen said Well done my friend! sigh of relief

reply sanssouciblogs wrote on Feb 3, ’09 aimlessjoys said Very nicely combined into one.  Lovely! Aim, thanks for running back over, I appreciate it. I think this is it.

reply tulipsinspring wrote on Feb 3, ’09 OMG. Yes Sue, I’d say this is it. Wow. I read this and cried for your friend. What a gift you have given her. It’s absolutely amazing.

reply sanssouciblogs wrote on Feb 3, ’09 tulipsinspring said OMG. Yes Sue, I’d say this is it. Wow. I read this and cried for your friend. What a gift you have given her. It’s absolutely amazing. Thank you sweetie, I so appreciate that! Now I can move on. I’ve been in agony all day!

reply pestep55 wrote on Feb 3, ’09 Beautiful — as they all are. I love v3 /:-)

reply mntsinger wrote on Feb 3, ’09 sanssouciblogs said waiting for alternate side parking to end, having martinis that you brought down on a tray. This along with so many other bits and pieces help us really know her and share her joy of life. You have done a wonderful job of bringing her to life for all of us. Thank you for sharing this tribute and allowing us to help you bring it to fruition.

reply sanssouciblogs wrote on Feb 3, ’09 pestep55 said Beautiful — as they all are. I love v3 /:-) alright!!! thanks, pat. xo

reply sanssouciblogs wrote on Feb 3, ’09 mntsinger said This along with so many other bits and pieces help us really know her and share her joy of life. You have done a wonderful job of bringing her to life for all of us. Thank you for sharing this tribute and allowing us to help you bring it to fruition. I appreciate this comment so much, thanks Diana!

reply starfishred wrote on Feb 3, ’09 Well done but in the last stanza I like the original better it has more emotions-also the the very first stanza I feel the original better- but it is your poem and it is wonderful you brought the woman alive and then had her die in front of our minds eye great-I feel like she is in the room when reading it.

reply billatplay wrote on Feb 4, ’09, edited on Feb 4, ’09 Here here to starishred who was below me last time. So where has our two previous entries gone? It matters not it is still wonderful. PS I saw face the first and the poem confirmed my first thoughts. Heaven to know and hell when you did because you could not bare to be away from her. I bet she concerned many?

reply gileson wrote on Feb 4, ’09 Sue, You have managed to portray the beauty of her life, the girl, the woman, the adventurer. I suspect Suzanne IS  communicating with you and this is what she is saying “”It’s a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done before. A far better resting place that I go to, than I have ever known.” Travel Blind is a tribute to another tragic Suzanne.

reply vghozlan wrote on Feb 4, ’09 omg sue…this poem left me weeping…

reply sanssouciblogs wrote on Feb 4, ’09 gileson said Sue, You have managed to portray the beauty of her life, the girl, the woman, the adventurer. I suspect Suzanne IS  communicating with you and this is what she is saying “”It’s a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done before. A far better resting place that I go to, than I have ever known.” Travel Blind is a tribute to another tragic Suzanne. Thanks, Tim, I feel better about the current rewrite I think it holds the integrity and form better and it’s clearer. I am so happy and honored for your input, I am so on overload! Thanks and hugs.

reply sanssouciblogs wrote on Feb 4, ’09 billatplay said Here here to starishred who was below me last time. So where has our two previous entries gone? It matters not it is still wonderful. PS I saw face the first and the poem confirmed my first thoughts. Heaven to know and hell when you did because you could not bare to be away from her. I bet she concerned many? Hi, and thanks. The very latest is at the top, just re-edited, and the original and first edit are UNDER. I feel the (top) current edit is clearer and works better as a poem. Rather than introducing it with the death, I am introducing it as the first re-write, with the personality so that when the death is introduced it has more of an impact as the reader has begun to know a bit about her. Everyone who knew this woman thought she was their best friend. She was healthy and fit, but I guess she was needed above because the accident was so bizarre and shocking. If you think it’s wonderful, I am good to go. And very thankful indeed. I am so disconnected form the pain I initially felt, that I am awed by people’s reactions. For me it’s too much and I’ve shut down. I was bereft, 20 years ago and for years after. Love you.

reply eccentricmare wrote on Feb 4, ’09 OMG Sue, it’s so well combined in the second edit. It grabs the reader at the start with the interest to know her, and love her and then … takes us to the same questions, same pain, same loss.  Tears. My humble opinion – it’s perfect.

reply sanssouciblogs wrote on Feb 4, ’09 eccentricmare said OMG Sue, it’s so well combined in the second edit. It grabs the reader at the start with the interest to know her, and love her and then … takes us to the same questions, same pain, same loss.  Tears. My humble opinion – it’s perfect. Kaz,YOU MADE MY DAY. That’s what I was hoping for!!! xoxoxo

reply nomorybr wrote on Feb 4, ’09 perfection

reply sanssouciblogs wrote on Feb 4, ’09 Krysta, thank you I appreciate that word! Thanks so much! xoxoxo

reply philsgal7759 wrote on Feb 6, ’09, edited on Feb 6, ’09 Well done but I agree with Heidi  you should end it with I just knew That line captures the mood you hasve set that though it has been 20 years your hearts are still connected

reply skeezicks1957 wrote on Feb 9, ’09 It is hard to lose a friend.  I get so caught up in the story that I miss the small details that you are smoothing the edges on.  I like them all.  Reading each of them makes me feel like I knew her too.