A Love Song for Celeste

It's hard to start writing. Tears are forming. I am thinking of that day in 2004, when, terrified by the sounds issuing from the first floor of that apartment building on 144th street, an English tutor called her agency: "I just can't stay here. I'm sorry, but it's freaking me out a little." I hadn't yet spent much time in Harlem. "It's ok, Laurie; you don't have to stay. Totally up to you." I thanked her, and hung up. I went home, back up to 73rd and Broadway, to my posh neighborhood, the fourth floor walkup that was so small a young girl would one day remark: "It's too small, you should move." And I would laugh, because I loved her, and most of all she was right. I can't remember when or how, but something was pulling at my heartstrings. I had to go back to that apartment on 144th. So it would be my 2nd visit, the one where she would be there, for the first time I hadn't even met Celeste or her family. The downstairs neighbors' fighting had scared me off. She was about yah high. She was squirmy, bright-eyed, clearly uber intelligent. Her little brother was just a baby then, her two sisters were younger and older, all beautiful. Her mom, so young, pretty and generous would pull me into that cramped apartment with the kind of warmth I'd dreamt about. This was family without the secrets, the pretense, the judgement, the insecurities. It would become the kind of family I'd cling to when I was alone on the East Coast, through job losses, moves, deaths. Celeste, dear Celeste, this is your love letter. You turn 18 tomorrow. Oh God, here come the tears again, for I am thinking of how I taught you which way to make the curved part of the b or the d go; and we would sit on the floor of that cluttered room you shared with Cerina, and she'd want to join us. You kids would bring me snacks, and draw pictures. Before long, your affection for me was obvious. When the tutoring lessons ended, we had only begun. Your mom graciously agreed to let me stay in your life, as a mentor, as the lady who'd bring you on a merry-go-round ride at Central Park, to the ice rink (where I'd only watch and you'd smile as you whizzed past), to Sephora more times than I can remember. I think my addiction for makeup infiltrated your gene pool because last year you convinced your beau to buy you a certain gift there. When I was almost 44, I learned I was slipping into an early menopause. Crestfallen, my comfort came in the form of a spright little lady I'd take to the Hudson, whose hand I'd hold, and who'd tell me once: "I am glad you don't have kids because if you did, you might not give me any attention." You said that a year or so after asking if I had kids. I said no, and you were worried: "You don't have anyone to love." I said no, you are wrong. "I have you, Celeste." In these past few years you've excelled in school; you've applied to more colleges than I have digits; you've won community awards; gone on sponsored trips to Africa and the Islands. My friend Charlotte and I attended your step show in Harlem last year, a moment that made me so proud my smile could be seen all the way downtown. How do I tell you I love you? How do I watch you become 18 and know that tonight, the last night of your being 17, will never be like any other we'll ever know. Your mom told you once she wanted you to be close to me, to know that white people aren't so bad. I think we've learned how invisible color really is, even as the stark differences we see around us jar our own understanding. Remember the times we'd be on the subway and people would look at us and smile. They wanted to see white-black friendships and relationships. Many wondered if I was your mother. I am so glad you are in my life still, that I'm still marginally cool in your view, that you told me last summer: "I guess my best friend would have to be you, Laurie." I was visiting you after your knee surgery, the result of a skiing accident. Enjoy this moment, dear Celeste. And one day many years hence, when your Laurie has written her last word and fed her last cat (ha ha), head out to Central Park. Go to the merry-go-round and that big rock I took you to when you were six. Look up at the trees. And I will be there. I will be there in your heart always.