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memories, ghosts, dreams 163 Loving with Sinatra Connie Fisher Vanity-driven, I hadn’t shed a tear for more than 5 years—my eyes would become too puffy. But when Russ, my husband of 9 years, died, at my pastor’s urging I began to cry what seemingly became rivers, lakes and oceans. Realizing I need to contain the torrent, I began to gorge myself with tunes by Frank Sinatra. I’d play them all over the house and in the car, and sometimes they’d even put me to sleep. It worked. I began to write about our life related to the Sinatra songs Russ and I loved. Early on in our courtship we’d hear “Come Fly with Me” and so we did, to the far reaches of the earth. Then in the end, at the crowded ICU unit of the hospital, Russ and I danced up to heaven as I bade him farewell. Approaching the Pearly Gates, I said, OK, St. Peter, hit it! “New York, New York”—and we twirled to that song with our usual abandon. Only this time he went on through the gates, while I remained behind. ...

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