la prima cosa bella
the first beautiful thing
Good morning my beautiful friends,
My god. May. It’s always a month. Weather wise - it’s always a beautiful month. It’s pre-summer. There’s no humidity. You can slowly start to bring out the slip dress, or settle for a crop and jeans. I’m tired of boyfriend blazers, and I am welcoming the little sunburn that always starts to form on the tips of my shoulders.
It is May 13, 2023, and it is 6:25 AM on Saturday morning. I haven’t been up this early in a very long time. But ever since food poisoning, I’ve been making more conscious health decisions.
I avoid the grocery store where I shopped before. I will now only go to the organic market for meat and produce. I’ve been integrating more chicken and eggs and fruits into my diet, avoiding cheese (sadly) AND reducing my alcohol intake.
Can you believe it?
However, one thing that I will never swap out is my pasta pomodoro. Last night, I made gnocchi with the most beautiful crushed tomato sauce. And adding an onion into my sauce has been the biggest game changer.
Another thing that will never change? My daily espressos.
I’ve been up for only 20 minutes, and I am slowly sipping on my second one. I am propped up in bed with a million pillows and two cozy blankets. There’s a glass of San Pellegrino with a bit of lime squeezed in beside me. There’s fresh strawberries and oranges on my counter, which I will grab right after I finish writing to you.
I’m taking a breath.
And, here we go.
-
My dad FaceTimed yesterday while I was eating gnocchi with that beautiful, crushed tomato sauce.
He was a very welcomed dinner companion.
“Do you remember if she say anything profound to you that morning?” I ask him.
“No, but I really wish she did. The only thing she said to me was that she had no regrets. She was so tired, Emily. I just sat next to her, letting her sleep.”
We both start to cry.
-
My dad brings her home from palliative care in the afternoon on Mother’s Day, May 14, 2017.
Her last full day. She sleeps on the couch for most of it.
I am wearing Christmas pajamas in the middle of May. I bend down to give her body a small hug when I see her. She is frail.
My aunt and cousin come over. We play Bananagrams quietly at the kitchen table.
The day before, my sister and I decide to buy her a terrarium for her hospital room.
“It just needs sun and the windowsill. She doesn’t have to worry about watering it.”
I avoided going to the hospital as much as I could during those three weeks she was there. I just couldn’t bear it. And for some reason, I know she never blamed me for that.
I know she didn’t want me or my sister to remember her that way.
There’s that beautiful, motherly, protective instinct. Protect your kids from anything that might break their heart for as long as possible.
I remember texting her photos of the tulips in April, right when they bloomed.
I was home alone, most of the time.
My aunt and cousin leave early on that Sunday afternoon.
“Say bye to Zia.” My aunt tells my cousin.
My cousin, who was around 7 or 8 at the time, wraps her small arms around my mom’s shoulders.
“I love Zia’s stories.” She’d always say.
It is now me, my sister, my mom, and my dad in our living room.
It might have been the first year my sister and I both wrote separate Mother’s Day cards for her.
“Can you read them out loud to me? In your teacher voice.” She sits upright and asks me.
I get through the first two lines and start to cry.
She holds my hand. “It’s okay.”
The tears won’t stop, and my sister has to take over.
It is 7 pm. The nurse wants her back in her room.
When you are in palliative care, you are only allowed to leave the hospital for a few hours.
“I’m ready.”
We gently help her off the couch to stand and leave. A blanket hangs over shoulders.
One hug for my sister, and one hug for me.
She looks at us both. “No regrets.”
We each get another hug.
She takes my dad’s arm as he leads her back to the car.
I think I am still crying.
My sister and I both stand at the doorway, watching.
“Wait - the terrarium!” My sister goes back to the living room to get it.
Halfway out the door, she pauses and looks back at us.
“Let’s leave it here.”
Holding my dad’s arm, he leads her to the front seat and gently closes the car door.
The car pulls out the driveway, she rolls down the window and starts to wave.
From the front porch steps, my sister and I start to wave back.
“We love you!” We call out.
More tears.
We wave, and we wave.
At the end of the driveway, my dad stops the car.
“I love you more!” She calls out back to us. The car drives away, and we wave and wave until we can’t see each other anymore.
On May 15, 2017, I wake up to sunshine and to an empty home.
I walk down the stairs to the kitchen. Two blue espresso cups sit side by side in the cupboard. I take out one.
I stand alone at the counter, watching the coffee fill the cup.
Something tells me to play her favourite song.
With sunlight pouring into the kitchen, I sip my espresso and sway to the music.
And in the early afternoon, I am the last one to get the call.
And in the early afternoon, I am the last one to arrive.
And in the early afternoon, that May sunlight pours over her body.
Eyes closed. Hair sparse. No regrets.
I am holding her hand where there is a single IV taped.
I do not want to let go. But it is time.
-
It has been six years. My heart is still recovering, but my heart has still not yet recovered.
My heart is fragile. My heart is vulnerable. My heart is an open wound.
But my heart is my superpower.
And it is my grief that grounds me.
My grief is a reminder that there are many things that do not matter, and there are very few things that do.
And as my dad and I finish up our FaceTime dinner yesterday evening, with tears in his eyes, he says to me -
“You grew up to be a really beautiful woman.”
And I know she thinks so, too.
🤍🤍🤍