There was a moment aboard the Christina O that felt almost mystical. A moment wherein time collapsed, and my hand lay on the blue lapis fireplace in what I would call a den but which I’m sure they have far fancier names for on yachts. And I thought to myself, Jackie surely once put her hand here.
I don’t know if that’s true, but that was the story I told myself then. That’s what I wanted to believe. That in that moment, I stood where she once was.