Missing Rita

Two years ago my mother became a butterfly. It was a warm September Thursday evening, sometime after 6:00 PM and my sister, Heather, and I were crossing West 57th Street as we walked south on Park Avenue after work. Flittering above, was a Monarch butterfly, which Heather sweetly pointed, and said, "look a butterfly!" It was a happy reprieve from the heaviness of our discussion. We had been talking about mom, Rita, who we had visited on Wednesday and appeared to be in seriously declining health. We didn't know when, but we, particularly Heather, felt that Mom's time with us on earth, was not long. As Heather remarked, "death doesn't wait until the weekend."

How prescient, because by the time we got to L.I.C., our neighborhood, Mommy was gone. We received the phone call from our eldest brother not long after we stepped in the door of our apartment. 09/19/2019.

Every day I feel the presence of her absence. During Heather and my visits to my parents in Oradell, NJ, I would write little stories of our time spent during the visit. My brother Paul would sometimes call Mommy by her name, Rita, and for some reason during her illness, I would call her Rita too. What follows next is one such story from August 2, 2015.

"How come I don't know that it is August," says Rita as the sun shines gloriously, albeit very hot, outside on the Sycamore trees. She's bundled under my old Anthropologie Alessandra bedcover. Heather is downstairs chatting with Dad as opera lulls in the background competing or complimenting the hum of the AC. Heather made Rita as fragrant as an English rose. We had a visit earlier from Patrick, Patrick Leonard, Laura, and Caitlin. They are off north to Montreal tomorrow. Dad was up earlier with us discussing the president, politics et al. It was like the days of yore. Almost sweet, if only Rita weren't so tired. Rita's on her Unilever kick [I used to be a chemist for Unilever], but it's my fault as I mentioned Fordham. Speaking of which, almost time to head back to the city. Next time, a bagel with cream cheese for sweet Rita. Closed eyes and sweet effortless dreaming."

Oddly, I never bought her a bagel with cream cheese. I would bring her a brioche or a baguette or a blueberry muffin, but never a bagel with cream cheese. Subconsciously, I thought by delaying the bagel, by not bringing her one, she could never leave. If only life worked that way. Rita, Mommy, you are much missed and loved, as much as ever.