How I Will Remember You

My dearest Adrienne,

I've been thinking a lot today about how I'll remember you. You were a beautiful woman, a gifted actress and an amazing filmmaker. Your eyes sparkled whenever you spoke of your work -- of your passions. You gave off a "fiesty" aura -- one that said "cross me and you'll never forget it" -- but I never believed that. To me, you were a woman with an old soul, and you seemed to speak truth all the time.

Although our paths crossed as adults, you will always be 16 in my heart -- your hair feathered back, draped in some outrageous boa that your cousin gave you. We are watching a movie in the Playhouse with Adam or Jon; I am trying to convince you for the 8-millionth time to go out with me; you are laughing that rumbly, throaty, laugh as you say, "Mmmmm...no" about 8-million and one times. And then you are smiling at me again, or twisting my hair in your hands.

And I just want to know that you are OK. That things are good. That you are working, that your daughter is well, and that your film is great.

But I can't know that anymore.

I will always hold some of you in my heart: your smile, the way you could make a moment into something sensitive or funny depending on how you'd turn your head, how you would crinkle up your nose.

But I'd like 16 back, if only for a few more moments. Because I miss that summer version of you...that girl I will always remember.