New Year’s Eve fest in Big Apple was within reach. But cousin taught her this lesson

Last month I stood with friends and family in Brooklyn’s historic Green-Wood cemetery. I had the opportunity to say some graveside words about my dear, gentle cousin Rebecca.

Her funeral had been delayed for a year. Even with more time than most people have to absorb the unfairness of losing a loved one before she could grow old, the memories I shared were a nonlinear tapestry of random stories. Hopefully, I painted at least a glimpse of her sweet soul, if anyone could hear it through the sniffling.

Even if I failed to clearly communicate on that November day, in that winding labyrinth of granite and grief, I think Rebecca would have been cool with the attempt. It’s the trying that matters, one of the many things my cousin taught by example. Knowing that, knowing her philosophies, she actually comforted me from the beyond that day. “You be you” was one of the last things she said to me.

One story I blurted was about a New Year’s Eve I spent with Rebecca. We were college students. I was back in New York for winter break. Our uncle invited the two of us to a late, cozy dinner at Ye Olde Waverly Inn in Greenwich Village. So our secret scheming began.

The “itinerary” was we would meet Uncle Bill at 8 or so for some catching up in the warm glow of the restaurant’s crackling fireplace. Then, our uncle would cab it home to Brooklyn and my cousin and I would take the Long Island Railroad back to my parents’ house.

However, it was New Year’s Eve. We were in our early 20s. And we were in New York City. Thirty blocks north was Times Square, Dick Clark, a crazy crowd and a crystal ball poised to be dropped.

That’s some young adult math that could not be ignored. The stars were aligned. We had a slick plan to join the wacky crowd and have bragging rights for the rest of our lives.

However again, our uncle, aside from being a bookish intellect, was also streetwise. Against our gentle protests, he insisted on taking us directly to Penn Station.

But we still had escape hatches. We figured he’d drop us at the entrance. Once the coast was clear, we’d U-turn out of there and shimmy straight to Times Square. Dick Clark, silly hats, here we come, wooo!

One more however. Uncle Bill escorted us straight to our train platform. Noooo. It was a bit after 11 p.m. He stood there, tall and grinning in his London Fog trench coat. He waited until our train doors slammed shut. Our epic night was foiled.

I was disappointed. Livid, even. Would I ever again be so close to that world-famous countdown? Could I even tell my friends back at Mizzou I was blocks away from the biggest party of the world, but instead I had to watch a train conductor punch my ticket into a tiny burst of sad confetti?

As the train started rolling, I looked over at my cousin. She was beaming. It was clear to me the whole silly, loud, glittery plan didn’t matter. Bex was happy to be with her cousin and rolling in the direction of her extended family on Long Island. That was so her, knowing (way ahead of her peers) the importance of being with the people you love.

This was not the night I missed partying with Dick Clark; it was the night I almost missed what matters most, if not for witnessing my cousin’s peace and joy on that cold, clanky train as it snaked away from the bright lights. To carry Rebecca’s torch, I will say this: Forget any forced glitz. It’s who you’re with, and also who’s in your heart.

Somewhere along that Penn Station-Ronkonkoma line, a tipsy group on the other end of our almost empty car alerted us when the clock struck midnight. At that point we were full of our signature cousin giggles. Best New Year’s Eve I’ve ever had.

Reach Denise Snodell at stripmalltree@gmail.com