“It seems we all live so close to that line, and so far from satisfaction.” -Joni Mitchell, Song for Sharon

A girl of 12 makes her first solo flight from Los Angeles to New York on the now-extinct TWA. A First Class morning flight at the end of a Paradise Cove summer, the comforting whine of jet engines holding her 30,000 feet aloft, with crisply-uniformed stewardesses tending her, warm smiles bringing her magazines and beverages. And the best scrambled eggs the girl had ever tasted, extra buttery and fluffy, melting in her mouth the way the clouds would if she could just reach out through the oval window and scoop one up.

The woman who can still picture the distinct morning light that shone through the cabin, the exotic thrill of flying on her own from Malibu to Manhattan, the almost erotic realization of a little girl on the cusp of womanhood, has longed on occasion to taste those perfect eggs again.

A phone call from her dear friend, who told of a schoolmate’s fresh suicide. Hung himself from a tree in Griffith Park, the wasted fruit of a 42-year-old man in final despair. He’d been isolating, but the Wellbutrin he’d been taking seemed to bring him out. Right to the tree in the park. With a rope in his hands and a pain in his heart that could not be seen. A pain that was apparently never heard.

She made her eggs a little differently today. Still melting a generous pat of butter in a small stainless steel skillet. This time, she cracked the two eggs directly into the pan, scrambling them as they bubbled, until they were just done. Scraped the scramble onto a plate, enjoying the bright yellow contrast with the clean white dish.

Another very close friend recently lost her father, in a heart-wrenching, protracted parting of soul from body.

A little salt. No pepper.

A man she loves lost his 53-year-old father to a heart attack 11 years ago. She thinks of her beloved friend as she seasons her breakfast, considers his annual ritual. Does he continue to find solace in the practice, or has it become rote?

She pours a cup of tea and thinks of her father, who also died of a heart attack much too young. She still has the mug from which he liked to drink his morning brew. It isn't a design she prefers, but she would weep if it broke.

They found a body in one of the lofts in her building. It’s believed the 40-something man had lung cancer and took his own life before it got taken from him.

All this death in her life, and all she wants is to taste the perfect eggs of her childhood.

She made them this morning. Without trying. Saffron yellow, buttery soft, luscious TWA eggs.

Sometimes it’s good to be alive.