The Magic

There is no doubt it has been living on “borrowed time” for quite a while.

Yet, to quote a phrase often used:

“ For it’s age, 29 years to be exact, it looks quite well.”

And, yes, I treasured it for many reasons, not least of all the blue logo on the upper left terrycloth shoulder.

Of course, it was well made. The distinctive blue script, a subtle nod to its origin, insured that, and of course, it was always comfortable.

Still that doesn’t explain its worth. It has a large extended family, all close in appearance, and quite affordable:

All White, oversized, and washable.

Still this one was special, like a favored child.

It was an unexpected gift from one of the Fabulous Four and his lovely bride. They brought it to me festively wrapped after a weekend spent in the Big Apple, and yes, the young groom remembered my oft told stories about walking along the fabled street across from their hotel.

Perhaps that was the magic of the robe. It’s origin always evoked cherished memories of strolling that long block of concrete holding tightly to my Dad’s hand on a Sunday afternoon as we approached the Central Park zoo.

Or even in later years holding another young man’s hand as we crossed eastward in “our city” to listen to a fabled Big Band’s musical magic on a moonlit summer night.

When the autumn leaves had fallen and the concrete was covered with snow, often my cousin, Bill Hall and I would hurry east toward the frozen Central Park Pond with ice skates. Later returning westward in the twilight toward home, we carried small paper cups of hot chocolate as well as the skates,

Then many moons later, on a magical Monday afternoon in October, I arrived as a bride for a wedding supper at the NYAC. It remains today, another famed location slightly down the street from where decades later, my gift was purchased.

Oh, I know it was a different city; and definitely a different era. There were no angry words or shouts yet when the now historic ( or if you prefer, controversial) name was mentioned.

NYC still had a magic during those forgotten days when The Plaza Hotel was owned and operated by the still relatively obscure Trump family

Today as I gently put the aged robe with the blue logo into the bin for disposal, I reflect on the mysteries of life and death and how fortunes rise and fall, and yet we can still find joy in many of the yesterdays.

But only when we relinquish what happened later.