Permission To

As the days float by, and friendly faces disappear, I wonder how I dared to make so many assumptions.

Although I was obviously incredibly naive, I was also totally unaware of that deficiency.

Nor was I ever the soul of optimism. Rather to quote one of the first lines I wrote,

“My cloak is woven of sadness.”

Although the line was prophetic, I didn’t realize that either on the day thirty years ago when I typed the six introductory words for ‘Thy Name Is Woman.”

Today I am shocked at my utter lack of foresight while the significant chapters in life unfolded.

Will and I watched the coronation together last weekend, and the topic of inheritance arose. The subject began with a discussion of how succession to the Throne of England is determined. However, then our conversation continued to dowry's or inheritances.

I began to explain my total belief that the most important dowry you can leave to those who are beloved is a legacy of love.

Words that hopefully will always be remembered that hold neither malice nor recrimination.

The gestures of kindness, in my Dad’s case, were always anonymous. He never passed a pilgrim needing assistance without a coin or occasionally (despite the Depression) a bill magically appearing in his hand.

I constantly remember the amazing legacy Bill Donlon left his oldest daughter. It wasn’t my name on his small bank account or a hand written document allowing me a share of the the stock portfolio purchased when his dream of being a homeowner was denied,.

No, rather my legacy was the memory of the frigid days when we visited Central Park and Dad walked the frozen pond without skates. It was how my Father never laughed when I spoke about becoming another Sonja Henie with my new racer ice skates.

My Dad left me memories of the Sunday movies we shared and how he never smiled when I spoke about becoming a “Song and Dance” girl. Instead he listened to the dreams of his oldest daughter whose black hair rejected curls and who was invariably described as “clumsy.” He gave a child permission to believe her dreams might one day come true.

My name was not included when the few items Dad cherished (a gold signet ring he never removed, nor the wristwatch he only wore on Sunday to church) were distributed.

However, I really didn’t need anything more than the most important gift he had already given me. During the 19 years we shared the same small tenement flat, Dad always assured me that while our home was in a neighborhood near ”Hell’s Kitchen,” it was also “Close to the Park.”

Bill Donlon gave me permission to dream. Perhaps not quite all of my dreams have come true, but most of them have and

I will be eternally grateful he taught me to believe they would.