Mom is still here. Her hand on mine. Her body. Arms. Neck. Eyes and ears and hair and nose. The way she glances. The way she smirks. Her wittiness.
Her interest in aesthetics. Roses. Colors. Andrea Bocelli. She is not interested in theory. She lives in her five senses. Always has.
I show her pictures. The picture of her mom and dad and me and my sisters. From Instagram. She smiles and says “He is such a nice man, Nonno,” and, “Nonna looks so beautiful.” She grabs me by my face, gently. Pulls it to hers.
She always says, “You are the most handsome man.”
She is here. I am grateful. Fifty percent chance of death within 12 months after that kind of hemorrhagic stroke.
Fourteen months later, she is here. Her hand on mine. Her body. Arms. Neck. Eyes and ears and hair and nose. The way she glances. The way she smirks. Her wittiness.
She is here.
But she is not here.
She couldn’t tell you if she ate breakfast this morning. Because short term memory. Couldn’t tell you what country she lives in.
Couldn’t cook a meal. (That fact is almost too painful to write. And some of you know what I’m talking about.)
Couldn’t counsel me on love and parenting and life.
She can be looking at me smiling and telling me she loves me then, mid-sentence, pivot to how her shirt is so nice.
She is here.
But she is not here.
It’s one of the biggest paradoxes.
She’s here.
She’s gone.
It’s not either-or. It’s both.
I’m grateful she’s here. So I touch her and caress her and lean on her and look deeply into her eyes knowing that one day she will be gone
But in that very moment, I can find myself devastated that she is also gone.
The paradox of being human.