ABBY

Yesterday I received a shocking email saying my oldest friend, my first friend

from when we were babies, my first friend ever died last night.  Her name was Abby,

and in the way that you love your childhood friends, I loved her.  We’ve known one

another all our lives.

Mine is a small family. And only a few childhood friends.  Abby and I kept in touch –

not all that often,  but often enough:  birthdays, dinner once or twice a year.  This

winter, she came to my book reading, and to a book party a few months later.  She

looked terrific, and we made a plan, for fall, to visit our childhood homes together. 

We grew up near one another, in Ansonia, Connecticut.  Our parents both bought

beach houses near each other in Woodmont, on a scraggily lovable beach on the Long

Island Sound, on the Jewish beach, adjacent to the Italian neighborhood.  We would

meet every single morning for many years, and wander, and swim. Abby was a

beautiful and elegant swimmer.  She would swim out to a big boulder in the middle of

the water, and I would join her.  We’d draw on the rocks, and plan our lives.

In seventh grade I suggested we start a newspaper called GAB.  I would be the writer.

She would illustrate the stories with drawings.  GAB occupied much of our time.  The

paper was made by hand and distributed to our neighbors.  The stories largely focused

on the love life of a neighbor, a woman in her twenties named Joanie.  Joanie went on

dates to find a husband.  I would interview Joanie, and the dates, and describe what I

saw.  And Abby would draw them.

By the end of the summer, Joanie dated H., a man she married. 

Abby drew a wedding cake.

Our mothers, very different from one another, were very good friends.  Abby’s mother

was a frequent cleaner.  Her house was immaculate. Even lunch at her house

was very neat. Peanut butter often, and small glasses of grape juice. 

My mother was a serious reader, and she’d sit on the porch with library books, and

happily read all summer.  Her lunches were often from  Family Circle recipes: 

chicken salad with apples, Ritz cracker apple pie.

After college, we both moved to New York City.  We wrote books, and published them.

She always took beautiful photographs, and was a natural photographer.  She started

teaching at the School of Visual Arts, where she taught for nearly 50 years.  Summers

she’d teach in many countries – Sri Lanka, India, China, Vietnam.  The photos she’d

take there were always amazing.

My mother Sara died first.  We had a Sara dinner together and told stories.  When her

mother Bess died, in Florida, Abby brought back a secret box, long and narrow, tightly

taped as though the secret of her mother was inside.  Abby and I met to celebrate Bess.

The plan was to open Bess’s taped up box.  Abby also brought back a Metamucil bottle

to dinner which Bess used to make nightly martinis. 

Before we opened Bess’s box, we speculated about the contents.  Abby was hoping for

a dildo. Bess was sort of puritanical, and the dildo, Abby thought, would be a pleasant

surprise.  At dinner, she opened the box slowly, carefully.  We’d throw out guesses,

then laugh.

The reveal was surprising:  the box contained a podiatrist’s cast of one of Bess’s

significant bunions.

We laughed about this for years.

Abby, my old. talented, funny friend, I will miss you.

Love,

Esther

Her beautiful work:

https://abbyrobinson.com