People make their way down the hallway toward the viewing room. As they enter, dimmed recessed lighting plays off the gold-hued flocked wallpaper. A small incandescent light just inside the doorway illuminates a sign-in book. Although the room is sizeable, it is very crowded with mourners who brush against flowers as they greet each other. Multiple arrays of red roses on large metal easels line the side walls, framing the mahogany-toned metal casket in the center like the lush velvet curtain of an old opera house. Some sprays are so overladen with flowers;they tower toward the ceiling. The occasion is for Salvatore, who the priest will soon say died after a long illness and will be greatly missed. The deceased Salvatore, dressed in his special occasion black suit, lies in repose on pristine white satin, a gold crucifix spilling from his folded hands. He still wears his gold wedding band. A quiet man in life who never became conversant in English, he would be appalled by the lavish floral tributes more befitting a capo sendoff than awake for a quiet, modest tailor who lived 85 years. Were Salvatore not burdened by the curtain that death has hung, he would scold them all. Even before his once agile mind slowed behind the mist, he felt abandoned by the very people who now chatter around him. How dare they put on a display now, he would have fumed. As his once robust health weakened, few called or came by. How hurt he felt when he and Nicolosa were stuck at home while his family drove large cars to big places, never inviting them. Did they not think that he and Nicolosa would relish a trip down to the Bronx for fresh mozzarella and olives or even just a nearby supermarket trip? Why not offer a drive to the doctor so he could avoid costly cab fares. There are so many doctors, he complained. A few words might have brightened the day. And Antonia sitting so righteous next to her mother, a sad mask on her face as she greets the mourners. I failed there; we raised a selfish child who pestered us to leave the city for the suburbs; babysitting our grandkids until we were no longer needed. She nudged us out, away from the rose garden I so enjoyed, into an apartment too small for my spirit. You will enjoy living in senior housing, she promoted. What does she know? I longed for my old friends – old men telling tall tales at the social club. She became like the others, a stranger. Had it not been for my wife’s sister who took us to Mass, even that comfort could have been a casualty. Around me, I see young people whose christenings I attended, gifting more generously than I could afford. As they grew, they patterned their parents. Even my grandsons. Where have they been? I fear there will be no sadness for them. Nicolosa, I ask your forgiveness for small hurts through the years. And the grief of these past few years. I scolded you like my advance toward death was your fault. In my terror and misery, I made you the villain. How could I have ignored all the years before? Tiny and frail yourself, you struggled to lift me off the hard floor whenever I fell. You tried to hide your tears, but I felt them on my cheek. May she remember me for our good times. How we danced right in the kitchen as if we were young again. I would share stories from work, joking about fat ladies in tight dresses needing alterations, expecting me to be a magician. How we laughed. And gardening. I often worked into the night tilling the soil around the floribundas, to be surprised by her bringing me an amaretto-spiked coffee and a quick kiss. Who will care about Nicolosa now? Now regarding me in death, all of you peering down on me, how solemn you appear. What are you thinking? Are the thoughts of me at all? I trust I am not unkind. Those older among you garbed in those dark poorly-tailored suits, may I sometimes come into your thoughts. I pray that you will think of me as a man who trusted in God. And most loved Nicolosa, roses, and being a tailor. My family, I scold you, but please know I still love you all.
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