39/365 Dan

He says I’m a good emcee; I say he needs no introduction. Ideas continually in motion, words always in play—he animates the inanimate. Like a strong chain skater, Dan leads us in this project, his followers whipping out behind.

38/365 Dr. H.

He missed my delivery, insisting gruffly that it would be hours. Seven minutes later I gave birth to a daughter, lifting her out myself. “I’ve waited a long time for this generation of women,” he said later, presumably in apology.

37/365 Alex

Alex and I were too young to kiss (for that era), so we “went together” by standing close and talking softly. He was Greek, so I said I was fascinated by mythology. Which I was. More or less. Somewhat. Maybe.

36/365 My Daughter Suzanne

“Self do it!” she proclaimed at two. “Self” has been doing it ever since. I, the late bloomer, watch in awe as my Zannie blooms early and repeatedly. I ask her advice far more often than she ever sought mine.

35/365 Nick

Nick and family lived in Leningrad when we began writing; now it’s St. Petersburg. A friend, on assignment in Russia, carried my small offerings: a watch, necklaces. She flew home with a 40 lb. box of china in her lap.

34/365 My Husband

People tended to define Joe by his superb education, outstanding competence, and enthusiasm for problem-solving. We, too, often saw him that way—the husband and father who made us all feel safe. It made his dementia all the sadder.

33/365 Aunt Elsie

Her legs were trim in shorts, her hands skilled in gardening gloves. Under the dogwood tree, surrounded by a paradise of flowers in every color, she would serve iced tea, gazing fondly at her daughter and me, the almost-twin cousins.

32/365 Dick

Dick was my mother’s boyfriend when she was 16, and my piano teacher when I was six. He let me steal hot dogs from his lentil soup. He and his beautiful wife were my first crushes. I married his look-alike.

31/365 Marie

Marie and I were pregnant at the same time. Her due date was earlier, but I went into labor first. When she was told, she lay on the floor and kicked her feet, screaming at the unfairness of my behavior.

30/365 Cleveland Amory

I wrote to him in 1970, describing how my stepdaughters and I released turtles from the murky confines of pet shop tanks, and asked, What can I do to help animals? He wrote back four pages in longhand, telling me.

29/365 Dr. M.

Dr. M. taught me in college, then each of my daughters. He wrote to me about Gillian’s brilliance and insight, and said, “I love her, too.” He came to her memorial; his goodbye hug imprinted my necklace on my chest.

28/365 Eamon

My best friend asked me to stay with her on her wedding eve. She introduced me to her brother, Eamon. We talked. He read a poem. We talked. I read one of mine. We kissed. I forgot about his sister.

27/265 Maureen

Leonard Cohen's great admirer, Maureen makes me laugh every day. She likes my camera; I covet her curling stone. I wish she lived next door. If she did, my camera would photograph her two beautiful children, over and over.

26/365 Betty

My father hired Betty to watch me after school, but she didn’t last long. Betty would run my bath, set her bulk on the toilet lid, and tell me stories about her daughter’s violent marriage. I'd like to forget them.

25/365 Lee

“You look like Demi Moore,” I said to Lee across the table. The jazz club was stifling, the humidity beyond 100%. As the evening wore on, my makeup, hair, clothes melted. But not Lee’s. Now she looked like Salma Hayek.

24/365 Howard

Howard wore jeans to work and was a fun boss. Still, he was enough of a patriarch so that I was startled to be asked, on our way out the door following a business dinner, “Why do women fake orgasms?”

23/365 Babe

Babe was my father’s sister, a brunette beauty. He always said we had the same wit, the same manner. In a frozen marriage, she lost her 20-year-old daughter and died of liver disease. She’s the reason I rarely drink alone.

22/365 Jim

I will always regret not kissing Jim. His “most beautiful blonde in the world” was very young, slightly drunk with power, and thought she knew more than she did. Jim didn’t ask for much. I could have given him that.

21/365 Mr. B., the choral director

The elementary school choruses looked at the floor, shuffling and mumbling the lyrics until young Mr. B. arrived. What was this?? Chldren singing out, smiling, doing hand movements, looking at their director! The stunned parents held on to their seats.

20/365 My Daughter Gillian, 1975 - 2001

One picture is worth 40 words.

19/365 Bob Barker

He closes every show with an appeal to neuter and spay. I wrote a limerick and mailed it. (“Bob, you need a new spiel.”) He loved it. He read it on camera. The audience loved it. I didn't see it.

18/365 Bill

If you know a priest—tall and handsome, approachable, kind, ready to laugh at any kind of joke, but with clearly discernable goodness and godliness always just below the surface—that’s my good friend Bill. Except he’s not a priest.

17/365 Louise

When I met Louise she was 58, gorgeous in a Deneuve kind of way. She wore Belgian shoes and a coat she called "Minky." She was as generous as she was intimidating. She became my mother-in-law. I called her Mom.

16/365 Dominick

Long before Gillian died, Dom at school told me how she dropped a cookie from her lunch box and wept, not because she wanted it, but because I had packed it with care. Even then, his eyes were slightly damp.

15/365 Kat

Kat was my co-conspirator in our teenage escapades. We invented a language on the spur of the moment and passed me off as a Turkish bellydancer. She persuaded unsuspecting guys to play bar shuffleboard for money with the innocent blonde.

14/365 Hazel

Hazel and I were animal rights activists together. She was elderly, childless, blunt, educated, funny, and curious, and seemed to be deeply fond of me. Until my teenage daughter became pregnant, and Hazel said, “You must be a bad mother.”

13/365 Tony

Tony and his bass are a melded unit. He leans into it, embracing it, finding its humor. Tony plays with passion, the way he does everything else: talking, eating, drinking, learning, laughing, loving his family, gathering his friends to him.

12/365 Lucky

I called her Lucky because she was too young (70) to be my grandmother. I’m so much like her. Will I keep my singing voice, as she did? Will I keep my sense of fun? Will I lose my mind?