23 January 2016
It was a quiet dawn of a new day very much like this one (minus the blizzard warning). The living room was rearranged earlier in the weekend so she could see the snowflakes in the moonlight. Dad and I were watching Lauren Bacall play an American governess in North West Frontier. We had said goodbye to my brother and his wife, and a few minutes later 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, 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 it still stings more than a decade later not being able to do any of those things. I hold on to the memories I have, and as I grow older I wish for the memories lost – – those stories untold that vanished with them. And every year, I 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 and dad may not be here with me, they are always HERE with me. I have one of mom’s handwritten notes nearby: My sweet petunia, always smiling, may you never lose your positivity, it is your magic.
Magic indeed. Miss you mom. xo
Lucy Romano Preziotti (b. 9/1928 – d. 1/2000)
this post originally published on my Facebook feed.
modern vintage ink 