By JANET HART LEONARD
From the Hart
I was all by myself, having a late lunch at Via Italia, my favorite Italian restaurant near Hunters Green in Tampa. The locals love the atmosphere and the food is authentic, with freshly made pasta. Definitely not a dieter’s delight. Their half portions are just right for this Goldilocks, or more like Graylocks.
I brought along a new book of beach fiction, although I wasn’t going near the beach on this trip. I was writing. I had taken a break to regroup my thoughts and indulge in some beach drama and decadent Tortellini Panna E Prosciutto.
I had just been served my meal by a gal who is working on her masters in counseling. (Yes, I get to know my servers.) She walked away from me and over to a table, tucked in the corner.
My heart recognized what was happening. My chest tightened as I saw the woman, about my age, sitting across from an elderly gentleman. I saw a walker tucked close to him.
Our server was giving them their bill. As she left to run the card, I saw the woman, who I assumed to be his daughter, get up and brace her feet as she put her arm around her father. My feet knew just how her feet felt. I knew just where she would place her hand on the small of his back to help steady him. Her other arm would entwine around his to help him get up.
I remembered. My heart remembered.
The more I tried to swallow the more I choked. The tears fell faster than I could catch them. I watched as he shuffled his feet. I watched through the large glass window as they slowly walked to her car. She never let go of him until she got him inside. She reached over him to put on his seatbelt. Every move she made, I felt the emotions she had to be feeling. I had been there. It hadn’t been that long ago that I helped my mother to her feet after we shared a meal. Helping her, as she shuffled her feet to the car. Reaching across her, catching the scent of her Red Door Perfume as I fastened her sealbelt.
The heart never forgets.
Grief had, once again, sneaked up on me. It was a brutal attack. I have found that I cannot prepare or defend myself against grief. I think I am doing fine and then … I’m not.
I composed myself as best I could. I never cracked open my book. I quickly finished my meal. I put on my sunglasses before I ever got out of my booth. I try so hard to hide my grief … but it’s there. Grief hides in the shadows of my busy days. It stays in the margins of my “to do” lists. It simply shows up and invites the tears to come with it.
I got to the car and gripped the steering wheel. I had an ugly cry. You know, the kind where you sob until you think you are all sobbed out but then you remember that there will be no more lunches. No more bracing of the feet. No more scent of Red Door Perfume. No more …
I know the waves of grief will continue to come. The year of the “firsts” is the hardest. I have the hardest holiday coming up … Thanksgiving. My mother’s favorite holiday. My favorite holiday.
Who’s going to remind me to slowly cook the fried ham? (Yes, I know how.) Who will remind me to put the turkey in the refrigerator a few days before Thanksgiving so it will thaw? (I’ve always remembered.) I will miss those reminders. I will miss the wheelchair sitting in my living room. I will miss hearing my mother ooh and ahh over all the things she taught me to cook.
I miss my mother. I always will. My heart will always remember.