23 January 2015
It was a quiet night like this one except it might have been snowing. The room was rearranged earlier in the weekend so she watch the snowflakes in the moonlight. We were watching Lauren Bacall play an American governess in North West Frontier. We had said goodbye to my brother and his wife, a few minutes before Dad dozed off on the sofa. The ruling feline was nowhere to be found. I was the only one awake. Three minutes, or maybe it was thirteen minutes past midnight, the room became unsettlingly quiet. The shallow raspy breath had vanished, and every moment after that is a blur.
I want to call out to her (and now dad), hear their voices, give them a hug. I would like to say that it gets easier over the years, but even after fifteen years of not being able to do any of those things still stings. 15 years, I say it out loud and find myself in awe over how much time has passed, and how many friends in my tribe missed the chance to meet her.
I was 28, mom was 71. Way too young for either one of us to say goodbye. And although she may not be here with me, she is always HERE with me. I found one of mom’s handwritten notes recently: My sweet petunia, always smiling, may you never lose your positivity, it is your magic.
Only a mother can instill that kind of faith, and when you start believing it yourself anything in life is possible. Miss you mom. xo
Lucy Romano Preziotti (b. 9/1928 – d. 1/2000)
modern vintage ink 