Love – Tessa M. Perko's Blog

Dying Words

Rose Marie could feel it. Life slipping away.

For years, the Macular Degeneration in her eyes had slowly darkened her vision. The blindness had started in the middle of her eyes and took over more and more of her sight as it covered her vision like a dark blanket. At the lunch table, her friend Ruth read the menu to her.

Last year, her doctor had diagnosed her with Alzheimer’s. She had called each of her ten children with the news. They didn’t know how to react, and she didn’t either. She didn’t think her memory was bad. She still knew her children’s and friends’ names and the address where she had lived for sixty years.

Her apartment was on the second floor overlooking the front garden of the assisted-living facility. When she had moved in, she could see the roses blooming and the branches of the sycamore trees swaying in the breeze. Now, she knew the roses and trees were outside the window, but she had to turn her head to see them from the perimeter of her eyes. Sometimes, she didn’t bother. She just let the circle of light enter her mind without trying to focus on any details.

She had gone down to the dining room for breakfast. Ruth didn’t have to read the breakfast menu to her since the server knew that she ate the same thing every morning: a piece of bacon, toast with jam, and a full glass of milk. Sometimes, her daughter Margaret brought her some homemade jam that she stored in the refrigerator in her studio apartment. Strawberry-rhubarb was her favorite. She would carry the small jar of jam down to the dining room and ask the server to spread it on her toast.

She found her way around her studio by reaching out to touch the furniture as she walked to the bathroom, the bed, or her recliner. To get down to the dining room, she found the knob on her front door, twisted the door open, scooted her body around it, closed it behind her, took the apartment key that she hung on a lanyard around her neck, and locked the door by finding the keyhole with her left fingers.

Once she got outside of her studio into the second-floor hallway, she reached out to touch the armchairs, side tables, lamps that led her to the elevator. Since her studio was at the end of the hallway and the farthest from the elevator, she passed many other apartments along the way. She could discern from her perimeter vision that some had wreaths on the doors. She knew when she was passing Nellie’s door since she could hear her chihuahua barking.

Lately, she’d noticed that she had trouble talking to her friends at the dining room table. She knew what she wanted to say, but it seemed hard to get the actual words out. The same thing happened to her when she phoned her children. In fact, it was exhausting to talk for any amount of time.

“Wait a minute,” she would say as she struggled to express herself. They waited so patiently, much more patient than she had been as their mother. Then, slowly and deliberately, she would answer their question with a complete sentence.

Since she had moved into the assisted-living facility, two of her long-time friends had died. Jim had severe back pain for a week before her passed away. She and her husband had known him and his wife for sixty years. They attended the same church. Their kids went to the same schools.

Patty passed away in her sleep one night. When her daughter came to clean out her studio, Rose Marie asked if she could have Patty’s tiny cabinet desk. The handyman had moved it into her apartment, and she kept her calendar and pens in it now. When she opened it, the wood felt warm, like Patty’s arms.

Rose Marie had always told her children that death was part of life. This time, however, the death that was coming was her own. Throughout the day, more and more of her life was transitioning to a new place with which she was unfamiliar. She couldn’t play Solitaire anymore at her desk because she couldn’t see, so she sat in her recliner and let the window’s light stimulate her thinking.

She was afraid. What would happen to her children when she died? Would they still be a family? Who would her sons talk to when they had problems to discuss? Who would need her when they got a divorce or lost a baby?

When she had first moved into the facility, her friend Morgan had picked her up every Sunday and drove her to Mass. She didn’t come anymore since Rose Marie no longer felt safe enough to walk around a place where she hadn’t memorized the placement of the furniture. Now on Sundays, she went down to the chapel when the priest came to bring Communion for the Catholics.

“I don’t know how to die,” she said one day. She could see him put his hands in his lap before he answered her. “I’m fully aware that I will die soon, but what should I be doing right now, before it happens.”

Father Moyer took a deep breath through his nose, and let the air out like a sigh before responding. “Well,” he said. “You don’t need to worry about dying. Just spend your days loving your family and friends. That’s all that matters.”

“So simple,” she said. She heard Father take another calm breath. When he exhaled, she was reminded of the ocean. She thought his answer would have involved praying, repenting, forgiving, or philosophical discussions. “I’m afraid of what will happen to my children when I’m gone. I’m the matriarch of the family. I keep them together. Shouldn’t I talk to them about these things?”

“No. They won’t remember anything like that, but they’ll remember how you love them.” He breathed in and out like the ocean again. It sounded so beautiful and relaxing to her.

Later, when Rose Marie went back to her apartment, she sat down in her recliner and picked up her cell phone. She pushed “1” which would dial her oldest daughter’s phone number automatically.

They only talked for two minutes. It was so hard to get out the words she wished to say. At the end of the phone call, Rose Marie said, “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mom,” Celia said. “So much.” Rose Marie hung up.

Then she pushed “2” so she could talk to her second child. Then “3,” then “4,” then “5.” Her fifth child Ron didn’t answer. She’d have to call him later. By the time she had talked to the rest of her children, she could tell that the sun was setting between the branches of the sycamore trees outside her window. Soon, she’d have to walk down for dinner. She dialed “5” again, and Ronald picked up.

“I just wanted to say I love you,” she told him. She took a long slow breath and exhaled. The ocean flowed through her lungs.

Cousin Love

No one ever talks about their cousins, except my family. I have 44 first cousins that live all over the United States and beyond. I have friended many of them on Facebook. Many receive Christmas cards from me, and I visited many in Wisconsin and Minnesota this last year. I feel as close to my cousins as I do my own siblings.

My parents assured us that we would enjoy being from a large family since we’d always have friends. They were right. Even though I don’t see my cousins on a daily basis, they bring me so much joy and satisfaction.

My cousin Tim lives in Montana. He recently retired as the Superintendent of a tiny school district. Since I was a college professor, our careers were focused on helping students and improving education. We also comforted each other when we went through our divorces by sitting in a car in San Diego in the middle of the night and sharing stories after his brother’s wedding.

My cousin Roslyn is a high-school history teacher in Michigan. We both believe that students are better off when they learn history from more than one perspective and understand the difference between equity and equality since we worked with those concepts in the classroom. Roslyn is my philosophical partner in our extended family.

Carolyn lives in Winona, Minnesota. She raised her son as a happy single parent and now has two grandchildren. Yesterday, she posted a picture of her front yard packed with snow where she had painted flowers on the three-foot snow walls beside the path to her front door. What a creative spirit!

Cousin Dan lives in Japan with his wife and two pretty daughters. He works for the United States Navy and leaves his family for months at a time while stationed on the U.S.S. Reagan. I love his mustache and fun-loving family, who spend their afternoons searching for pottery on the beaches and artistic manhole covers in the towns.

My cousin Arlie is a handsome devil who has worn his once-dark-but-now-gray curly hair both long and short over the years. Once he drove a truck full of Wisconsin cheese to my parent’s house in California. We ate cheddar for weeks. Now, Arlie rides horses with his wife and works at an auto store. Even though we have little in common, at every reunion, we share heart-felt cousin hugs.

Patty lives in Boston and is married to Steve, who completely adores her. They go to baseball games and concerts on date nights, and inspire the rest of us not to give up on love. Patty sure knows how to pick a good partner.

Diane lives with her husband Matt in Minnesota. Now this is a fun girl. If you want to kayak in the Winona Lake, she’ll do it. She knows all the best restaurants in town and will even accompany you to the local spice and Polish museums for an afternoon. If you’re up for it after dinner, she’ll go with you to a bar for a beer and sit outside with the mosquitoes. One year, I watched on Facebook as she and Matt took their motorcycle on a cross-country trip through Minnesota, South Dakota, and Montana. Wow, what a woman!

Scott, a happy tall guy with a strong build, owns a dairy farm in Minnesota where he produces thousands of gallons of milk per day for American milk-drinking consumers. If you ask, he’ll take you on a tour of the farm and you’ll see where the calves are raised, cows are milked by machine, statistics are collected for each animal, and cow manure is recycled. Even a town-girl like me learns something every time I visit his farm.

I could go on talking about Lisa in Florida, Marilyn in Ohio, Marjorie in Minnesota, Randy in Minnesota, Karen in Wisconsin, Dewey, Joanne, Debbie, Denise, Renee, Kathy, Scott, Jim, and more, more, more, but you get the idea. I have interesting cousins in my life, and I interact with them frequently enough to maintain vibrant relationships.

Thank you, Mom and Dad, for maintaining such close family ties over the years. My cousins are an essential part of my happiness. I love them.

The Yellow Rose

Friday was the last day of class, and Profesora Casti lead her students to Almagro, the part of Buenos Aires known for its flower vendors. First, the group wandered among the flower stalls on Acuňa de Figueroa where baskets of roses filled the air with intense fragrances. Leonie bent over the bunches to breathe in their perfume, and she took turns saying their names out loud with her classmates. They chatted with the vendors who told them where they grew their flowers and how they worked from early in the morning until late at night planting seeds, hand-watering, and pruning in order to produce the most beautiful blooms.

The vendors chatted about Mother’s Day, weddings, and baptisms for which they sold the most flowers. Some stayed open 24 hours a day. The best time to buy flowers, they said, was late at night or early in the morning. These really were the most romantic times of the day anyway.

The class meandered to Calle Sarmiento where even more vendors had their shops. One shop, filled with tuberose and jasmine, perfumed the air outside its door with heady floral fragrances. Inside, the vendor was wrapping flower bouquets in cellophane paper for a woman and her two daughters.

Leonie wandered away from the group to admire the lilies of another vendor. While she was reaching out to touch a petal, a woman dressed in a green apron came out to greet her.

“Your lilies are gorgeous,” exclaimed Leonie.

“Thank you. My grandfather used to sell flowers on the streets of Buenos Aires. My father sold flowers in the old market in stall 8, and, now, I rent this shop here to continue our family tradition.”

Leonie moved under the shade of the willow tree that grew right in front of the storefront. “I love flowers,” she said.

“I love flowers, too,” replied the vendor. “I’ll sell them until I’m old and frail.”

Leonie paused in thought, running the woman’s response through her mind. Forever was a long time to do just one thing. Leonie didn’t know that she would ever find something that she wanted to do for so long. The woman in the green apron smiled at her, her face flushed with the essence of intense happiness, her eyes like shining opals.

“So,” Leonie asked, “You don’t ever wish that you could do anything else?”

The woman smoothed down the front of her green apron with hands crusted with dirt, chapped from years of digging and planting. “No, never. I never wish to do anything else. Each day in my flower shop I get to express my creativity, and that gives me intense joy. Besides, I know that I like to be around beautiful things, and what could be more beautiful than a shop full of flowers.”

“You seem so content.”

“You see this willow tree that’s giving you shade? A willow tree symbolizes fulfilling wishes of the heart. It also symbolizes inner vision. I’m lucky to know what fulfills my life. That knowledge is my inner wisdom.”

The vendor showed Leonie around her tiny shop, identifying the names of all the flowers and inviting her to smell their fragrances. Leonie told the vendor that she was about to take a trip to search for her life’s purpose. As the woman listened to her story, her eyes glistened and a whisper of a smile set upon her lips.

Before Leonie left, the woman held out a yellow rose. “This rose symbolizes our new friendship,” she said. “Friends are one of the most precious treasures of your life. From now one, you and I are lifelong friends. I wish you success on your trip and hope that you find your version of life fulfillment.

That night, just before Leonie went to bed, she sat at her desk to write in her journal. I know what fulfills me, she wrote. After setting down her pen, she felt anxious. But I don’t know what fulfills me, she worried. I don’t know what I want to do with the rest of my life. I don’t know what makes me happy day after day after day.

Leonie looked at the yellow rose that the flower vendor had given her. Its yellow petals brightened up the shadows of her room. She remembered how gently the woman had picked up each flower and described its characteristics, moving among her flowers with grace, touching each blossom with respect and admiration; her movements were filled with love.

Now Leonie knew. The woman had been a messenger from her own soul to teach her how to find her own purpose. Love was an integral part of finding fulfillment. When she found out what she loved, she would find her contentment.

Leonie touched the yellow rose, and her heart filled with joy when she remembered that the woman promised that they would be friends for life. Friendship, she thought. I have love already.

Hidden

Photo by Anton Darius on Unsplash

Sylvia had a secret. One that rolled around in her stomach like a marble in a maze, bashing against the walls until they bruised, swirling her energy into anxiety.

Sylvia’s friend Ruth told detailed stories about how her mother psychologically abused her during her teenage years. When they were cleaning out her grandmother’s house after her death, Susan had wanted her grandmother’s wooden chest full of yarn. Her mother refused to let her have it, and, instead, gave it to Susan’s older sister who didn’t even knit. Susan wondered for decades why she wasn’t good enough to have such a treasured keepsake and why her mother had favored her sister over her. Ruth told everyone about the hurts in her background, but she still walked around like a broken doll, permanently damaged, as if nothing could ever erase the scars she had suffered.

When Ruth talked about her feelings, Sylvia flashed her own memories across her mind about how her father had favored her sister over her. “Isn’t she beautiful,” she remembered he had said. Sylvia had looked in the mirror countless times wondering why no one ever called her beautiful. She had clear skin, thick hair, blazing green eyes. Weren’t green eyes as pretty as blue ones?

Her friend Paul had told her about how his father was never around. He never played sports with him, never sat with him on the couch for a game of chess, never even got to his high-school graduation until Paul had already walked across the stage and waved to his mother who was frantically waving back with both hands, as if she was waving for two. Even today, Paul’s father didn’t act like a father, but like a distant friend who sent him an article once in awhile about a topic that never related to Paul’s life. Paul had worked hard to build self-confidence, but struggling with a narcissistic father made that an up-and-down journey.

Sylvia’s friend Jen talked about her childhood, too. She told Sylvia how a sixteen-year-old neighbor boy had raped her when she was eleven, luring her into his backyard shed one afternoon and slowly removing her clothes while he talked to her about the different birds in the garden. Jen said that it was therapeutic to talk about it after so many years of keeping it hidden. At first, she was embarrassed that it had happened to her. What did she do to encourage that boy anyway? Why did she let him get her into the shed by herself? Didn’t she know better? Sylvia didn’t see how Jen had let go of the trauma if she still had all these questions in her mind.

When Jen talked, Sylvia nodded empathetically: “It wasn’t your fault. He took advantage of you. He was stronger, and you couldn’t have stopped him.” Inside her chest, however, Sylvia carefully drew a curtain in front of her own heart, shielding it from the memory of her own secret, stopping her from the minute-by-minute re-enactment of the scene, her shame, her acquiescence, her fear of exposure.

Sylvia didn’t want her friends to know she had suffered so much, had been irreparably violated. Maybe someone would use the information about her secret as revenge if they ever got angry at her. They would expose her in front of people she didn’t trust, and she would endure more embarrassment than she could handle.

Sylvia had spent years searching for her own self-esteem, her worthiness to be loved, her value as a treasured friend, her worth as an employee, her right to be happy at all. She thought that she should go talk to someone about her secret so that she could get it off her chest. Would that even work?

Finally, she made an appointment with a female minister at a church she did not attend. She told the woman about her secret, and asked her what she should do to heal from it.

“First, ask God for forgiveness. God will forgive anyone, even if you can’t forgive. Once, you’re comfortable that God has forgiven you, then forgive yourself and anyone else involved.”

Sylvia had worked on forgiving herself and the other person involved for years. Nevertheless, the memories, surfaced again and again like a nightmare when she least expected them. Sometimes, she even invited them into her thoughts as if she could purge them out of existence by focusing on them one last final time.

Nothing stopped the nightmares. They came while she was sleeping in a vivid stream, and her fear rose incrementally during the dream until she would awaken all of a sudden, gasping for breath like she had been under water the whole time. Her forehead was drenched with sweat, her heart tight with shame.

Sylvia did feel the pain of her friends, and because she did, she could listen to their stories and offer some solace just by suffering with them. She also understood the pain that her students told her about.

Samantha was a student in Sylvia’s college composition class. Samantha’s mother had kicked her and her three-year-old daughter out of the house, and, now Samantha experienced anxiety that interfered with her performance at school. Sylvia had counseled Samantha through several episodes of anxiety, and she had passed her English class in spite of her mother.

Van suffered from post-traumatic-stress-syndrome ever since he returned from Iraq, and his significant other left him right in the middle of the semester. Since Sylvia knew what anxiety and poor self esteem felt like, she coached Van step by step until he, too, passed his writing class.

So many of her community college students needed emotional support in order to pass their classes. Owen’s father beat him. Misty lived with five family members in a noisy, two-bedroom apartment. Monica’s parents wanted her to get married like a dutiful Islam daughter and give up going to school. Randall had spent two weeks living out of his car during the semester until his uncle let him live in his garage.

Sylvia knew that if she put in more effort to help these students, they could succeed and improve their lives through education and awareness of other opportunities. Yet, sometimes, as Sylvia sat beside one student or another, she felt like a broken human being trying to help another broken soul.

Was it true that people who never felt loved died of heart attacks? Most mornings, she woke up with a tight chest. She lay in bed breathing in and out of her nose until her chest relaxed a little, but the tightness never fully went away.

Most people had a secret, didn’t they? Weren’t most people walking around, hiding their secrets underneath their shirts, their polite manners, their rudeness, their abusive characters, their anxiety, their bullying, their surrender, and their repeated attempts at survival?

Yes, they were, Sylvia knew. She was, too. She had endured so many scars and affronts to her character, yet here she was, carrying her secret around like a satchel of wisdom.

Really, she thought she deserved a medal.

Child of Light

That child of mine.

She was like the black sheep of the family, but that didn’t mean there was anything wrong with her. On the contrary. Ever since she was a little girl, she walked like she was floating on air—her feet swishing out from beneath her, her body gliding like a spirit, her head held up and her eyes cast high like she was watching a movie in the sky.

Little Beth had a heart-shaped face, her blue eyes spaced perfectly apart and framed with blonde eyebrows, her pale rosy cheeks glowing like pink pearls, her plump cherub mouth, and soft chin. But she was a shy creature and shunned the limelight, so most people didn’t notice her as she peeked into the room around a wall, hid in a corner on a stool, or swung on the swing outside, alone, when the rest of the kids were in the house.

After Beth turned seven and received her Holy Communion, I walked up behind her to Communion at one Sunday Mass. When Beth reached the priest, his eyes opened wide as he looked into her face, his hand paused with the wafer above the chalice. After a frozen moment in time, he said, “The face of God.”

What did he mean?

My daughter stood there with her hands joined together, her fingers pointing to the ceiling like dove wings. Finally, the priest fluttered his eyes, seeming to compose himself and said, “The body of Christ.”

“Amen,” said Beth, her voice rising like a musical whisper. She stuck out her tongue and the priest placed the wafer there, then she circled around so I could see her.

And then I knew. A spotlight from the ceiling lit up her face, and I saw a glow in her eyes like the sun breaking through the clouds after a rain, radiant globes of love. A warmth filled my body as she passed me, and I knew from then on that I was extraordinarily blessed to have her in my life.

The priest’s eyes followed her as she left, and, because he was preoccupied, I also turned around and watched her glide down the aisle like a sail on the breeze. Quickly, I faced the altar again, but still had to wait for him to recover and remember that more people waited in line for Holy Communion.

***

My husband and I asked Beth to be the executor of our will. We asked her because she studied finances in college and we thought she’d be qualified to deal with the mechanics of disbursing our assets.

Peter died young so he wasn’t around when I started to go blind and I couldn’t write checks, cook on the stove, or drive my car anymore.

Beth told me that it was time that she took care of me. She helped me move into an assisted living place where three of my friends already lived. She helped me sort through the sixty years of belongings in my house, found charities to pick up unwanted furniture, hired a gardener to keep the lawn cut until the house could be sold, worked with my realtor, accepted a great offer on the house, and filled my bank account with the money.

“You have enough money to live for 35 more years,” she told me. “You saved and scrimped, and now, I’m going to make sure you are treated like a queen.”

I couldn’t see very well, but Beth knew that I could still smell the roses, so every time she came to visit, she brought a dozen roses, a chrysanthemum plant, Easter lilies, Gerber daisies, or an African violet to put on my windowsill.

I died on a December morning instead of a January afternoon because Beth was beside me in the hospital, making sure that the medical professionals didn’t exceed their zeal in pointlessly extending my life with hoses down my throat, catheters in my neck, and countless blood transfusions.

She ordered a giant spray of red roses to cover my coffin at the viewing and to decorate my grave after I was buried. Red roses signify eternal love.

That child of light of mine.

Coffee with Felicity

Felicity died three years ago, and Paul buried her next to her parents in the beautiful old Sacramento Cemetery. Next to her, an empty plot waited for him because he belonged nowhere else more than with her.

Paul remembered Felicity sitting at the kitchen table after she had been diagnosed with cancer.

“I love you dearly, Paul. After I’m gone, don’t be afraid to love again.” In front of her, Paul had bowed his head and cried.

“You ready for a second cup?” the waitress asked, one hand on her hip. Paul looked up from his paper into the woman’s brown eyes, the color of dark honey. As always when he looked at her, a quiver entered his chest and buried itself deep in his center. Gena was beautiful, a beauty that emanated from the calmness of her eyes and her relaxed smile.

“I’m ready,” he said, his mouth turning up on one side, his face flushing.

Paul was perched at the counter of the Owl Café, where he came every morning after he walked around the lake for his daily constitution. He had woken up at the first beep of the 7 o’clock alarm on his cell phone that was plugged in on the counter right outside his bedroom door. He had stretched out his arms and legs into familiar yoga positions and pulled on his sweats. Looking into the mirror, he’d combed his steel-gray hair back with his fingers.

Sixty-six years old, and he still had a full head while all his golf buddies were carefully combing their strands of white across a bald center.

Paul had begun his walk toward the lake with a strong stride and covered the three-mile circumference in forty-five minutes. Not bad for an old geezer. Then he had joined the Tai-chi performers in the block-sized park, stretching his arms up and around in a circle, breathing new life into his chest and separating the vertebra in his back. At the end, he’d inhaled and exhaled widely and deeply.

Afterwards, he had walked briskly to the Owl Café.

Gena’s coffee reminded him of relaxed breakfasts overlooking the garden where he had lived with Felicity. He thought of the spring mornings when he had planted inpatients under the mulberry trees in the back yard. Felicity had brought such richness to his life with her strength and vibrancy.

He read his paper contently as if she was sitting right beside him.

Only Gena reminded him that Felicity wasn’t there.

“I’m retiring,” Gena said. “You wouldn’t believe it, but I’m now a senior citizen and eligible for Social Security.” She winked a brown eye and sparkles appeared in her irises.

All of a sudden, Paul’s chest tightened. His heart pumped so hard that he thought everyone would see his chest moving, so he covered it with his open newspaper. His face felt warm. He raked his fingers through his hair to compose himself.

“What will you do?” he asked.

“I have a little cottage in East Oakland. Have lived there for thirty years, when my husband was alive up to now. Mortgage is paid off. I’m going to spend mornings pruning flowers in my garden, afternoons reading on the porch. Since I started working here eight years ago, I haven’t done much gardening or reading.”

He would miss Gena when she left. All of a sudden, he realized that he came to the cafe every day just to see her. To smell her coffee. To feel her calmness.

Now, she was turning the wheel of her life in a new direction, one that he didn’t share. A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed and asked, “Will you travel?”

“Maybe I’ll visit my daughter Maria in Colleyville, Texas. I haven’t been there for eight years either.” Gena walked away when the bell from the kitchen rang.

Paul mused. Gena’s complexion looked as smooth as an unwrapped toffee. Felicity had had a beautiful completion, too. He still remembered how he felt on their first date over forty years ago. He was sweating when he arrived at her front door.

“Are you O.K.?” Felicity had asked.

“I’m so nervous.”

“Whatever for?”

“Being on a date with such a beautiful woman,” he had told her.

She had laughed at him and looked even more beautiful; when she laughed, her face lit up like a lit candle. He had loved her from that moment on.

They had made love on the lawn in the backyard of Felicity’s rented duplex on beach towels laid over the spent needles of the pine trees. He remembered the curves of her breasts, the way they swelled over her taut ribcage—the tightness of her buttocks. When they made love, he felt like he was wrapped up in a warm blanket, snug and comforted.

Gena was serving big plates of bacon, eggs, and hash browns to the people at the counter next to him. She laughed at something he didn’t hear, and her laugh tinkled through the café like notes hammered out quickly on a xylophone.

Was this her last day at work? His hands felt clammy and his chest tightened, again. He raised the newspaper to hide his flushed face.

“Are you going to sit there all morning?”

He lowered the paper so just his eyes could see her. He had been sitting there for over an hour, dawdling with the newspaper, eating his breakfast in stages, and now wondering how to find out when her last day was. His hash browns were cold.

He felt a sharp pang of loss envelope him again. Thinking of Felicity. Wanting Felicity to be sitting next to him so Gena didn’t matter. Imagining Felicity’s breath on his arm, her arms around his shoulders as he read. Slowly he lowered his newspaper to the counter.

That smile. One of Gena’s hands was poised on her hip, while she held the coffee pot in the other. “Well, how long do you plan to bother me about this coffee?” she asked.

“I’d like to invite you out to dinner,” he whispered more than spoke, crushing the edges of the newspaper in his hands.

A flicker of light appeared in Gena’s eyes. Her smiled brightened. “I’d like that,” she whispered back to him, leaning so close that he could smell her perfume. Honeysuckle in a breeze.

Silently, Paul spoke to Felicity. He repeated her last sentence as they had sat together at that kitchen table. “Don’t be afraid to love again.”

Raising only his eyes to look up at Gena, Paul smiled and asked, “How about tonight?”

Chocolate Mama

Some women have a favorite perfume brand, like Chanel. Other women have a favorite fashion designer, like Gucci. My mother Rose Marie, though, has a favorite brand of chocolate, See’s Candies.

I remember the days when my parents would buy a variety of chocolates—Cadbury, Lindt, Godiva, Ferrero Rocher, and See’s; they covered their wooden coffee table with boxes filled with little paper cups of assorted chocolates. One by one, they sampled chocolates from each box, evaluating each one for the best texture, sweetness, richness, creaminess, and chocolate quality. The winner, hands down and every time, was See’s Candies.

My mother was born on September 1, in 1928 on a farm in Pine Creek, a little hamlet in Southern Wisconsin. Her mother was Florence Jereczek, a tiny woman with big opinions. Her father was August Jereczek, a not-too-tall man, lean and truly in love with his wife. After Florence died, he used to reminisce about how her hair was fluffy, kinda like a Brillo Pad. Then he’d smile and look up at the clouds.

My mom had three sisters with whom she clucked like hens whenever they got together and over the phone on a regular basis. She had one brother who sported red hair and an Irish temper, but they were close anyway.

Mom graduated from high school with a practical attitude. She didn’t think she was smart enough to be a nurse, and she loved to count and think about money, so she became a bookkeeper. She met my father, Paul, at a dance in the nearest town across the state line, Winona, and they dated for seven years before getting married. You see, he was a farmhand for his grandfather, and my mother didn’t want to marry a farmer. Finally, my dad joined the Air Force in the spring, and they got married the coming September.

Paul’s dream was to have nine kids, like one of his uncles. From Alabama to Minnesota to California to England, they pumped out babies one by one until they reached ten.

* * *

Now that my mother is 92 and I am a senior citizen myself, I am reflecting more than ever on how much I appreciate her. I am grateful for so many things:

My mother visited me when I was two and in the hospital for an eye operation. When she left, she kissed me on the cheek and told me she loved me. I thought that was generous of her, considering that she still had more kids at home to love;
My mother felt sad when President Kennedy and Elvis Presley died;
My mom danced the polka like a top with my lanky father around a dance hall;
She introduced me to my dozens and dozens of aunts, uncles, and cousins who mostly look like a different version of me;
She bought a goat to milk when I was born because I was lactose intolerant;
She showed me how to make butter and ice cream by hand, and how to skim the cream off the top of pasteurized milk and eat it from the same spoon;
My mother taught me the names of numerous flowers and home-gown fruits and vegetables;
She allowed me to decorate every room in the house with Mason jars filled with wild flowers;
She worked on the school board of my high school;
My mom convinced me that I was a good clothes folder and ironer so I could stay in the laundry room folding mountains of clothes and getting some alone time. (I’m still good at folding and ironing. Hire me;
My mother at first resisted, but finally smiled when my dad sang “Smile a little smile for me, Rose Marie:”
She demonstrated to me what commitment and loyalty mean;
She gave me her fur coat so I can pretend that I’m as pretty as she is;
My mom loved my two children as much as she loved her children;
She treated motherhood like the greatest profession that ever was or will ever exist because raising children is building a community;
She illustrated how to develop both male and female friendships;
She showed me that forgiveness may be hard, but it can also lead to future love and happiness;
She loved money and slot machines even though my father hated gambling;
She loved each and every one of her children even though we are as different as color crayons stuck in the same box;
She can talk to my husband Bob about golf even though she’s never played it herself;
Her white hair is as pretty as cotton candy and her skin as lovely as fresh bread from the oven;
She didn’t try to understand the Bible too well because “that’s what priests are for.”

My mother didn’t think she was smart, but, in her view, average intelligence provided more options. She didn’t think she was beautiful, but in my eyes, she was a lovelier Polish version of Sophia Loren. She wasn’t a great cook, but she canned enough tomatoes and pickles to feed an army. She filled enough jelly jars to supply every church bazaar and Catholic summer camp. My mother wasn’t extravagant, but she played slot machines like they were on the endangered list.

What my mother was is sweet—the See’s Candy kind of sweet—rich in flavor, a little funny with not too much sugar. She didn’t require special treatment like refrigeration. You could put my mother on a dark shelf and, in no time at all, her shelf would become your favorite place to find comfort and unconditional love.

Corona Virus Integrity

Pope Francis claims that the Corona Virus Pandemic is presenting humans with an opportunity.

A few weeks ago, right after the San Francisco Bay Area was ordered to shelter-in-place, I signed up to receive his daily email messages as a way to continue my journey toward cultural humility.

I’ve always respected this pope and believed that his spirituality reflected a mature connection with God. He never judges. He never criticizes. He accepts responsibility for his mistakes and, since he is the Pope, he recognizes the mistakes of the Catholic Church and works to heal the pain caused by the Church in the past.

He also understands the power of joy in life and the profound goodness it can achieve in helping someone develop a stronger spiritual life. I watched the movie The Two Popes; at one point, Francis tries to teach Pope Benedict how to tango. Pope Benedict never learns to dance well, but, while dancing, his face lights up with pleasure, a delight that he didn’t often feel before Francis arrived.

I’m impressed. I really am. Pope Francis brings joy into the lives of many people; he behaves as a human being of integrity.

Today, the day of Easter, his message is thoughtful and profound. He advises his readers to become inventive, creative. This makes sense. Creativity is the origin of life, the basis of growth, and the source of expanded understanding.

The Pope suggests that Christians use their creativity “in opening up new horizons, opening windows, opening transcendence toward God and people.” In simple words, for humans to love one another.

Before the sheltering-in-place order, many people attended Mass, and then, after leaving the church, they thought nothing of discriminating against other people. Some disparaged the LBGTQ+ community by criticizing pictures of gay marriages on television. Others labeled Muslim women as terrorists simply because they wore Hijab scarves while shopping at Safeway. Others accused people of sinning just because they didn’t follow the same “rules.” Some angrily rebuked people who had different political values. This is hypocrisy, not love.

Pope Francis asserts that today’s crisis puts “a spotlight on hypocrisy … It’s a time for integrity.”

To live a life of integrity is to love all human beings, and no one can fully love someone else unless they try to treat that person as they, themselves, would like to be treated.

This is cultural humility. A person cannot assume that they fully understand anyone. They, instead, must open to learning more and more each day about people and their lives.

Here’s an example. A heterosexual cannot fully love a member of the LBGTQ+ community unless he or she treats that person with respect and kindness. This does not include judging the behavior of that person; instead, the heterosexual can attempt to better understand the other person’s life without any prejudice at all.

People who claim that they don’t condemn the person, just their behavior, are not loving. They are living lives of hypocrisy since integrity does not include any type of judgment.

Pope Francis explains that the Corona Virus Pandemic does not discriminate against the rich or the poor; all humans are vulnerable to its deadly seed, and humanity can learn how to develop better spiritual lives if they strive to practice integrity—wholesomeness, oneness in action, unity.

Pope Francis also shares an idea that he gleaned from reading the Aeneid; don’t “give up, but save yourself for better times.” He asserts that humans should use this shelter-in-place time to become better, more trustworthy companions to their fellow sisters and brothers. He says that we should be “coherent with our beliefs”—make sure that our actions imitate what we claim to believe.

Amen to that!

If people are honest with themselves, they know when they are loving vs. prejudiced.

I realize that I am in the midst of my own journey toward cultural humility, and I’m sure I’ll be on this path for the rest of my life. Yet, I’ve learned how to achieve more cultural humility, another word for integrity, by practicing the following.

When I meet believers of Islam, I engage in a conversation with them. I learn about their histories, their daily lives, how living in America might clash with some of their rituals, what their goals are, or how they have experienced prejudice from other Americans. If they offer to share their foods with me, I accept them with eagerness and gratitude.

When members of the LBGQT+ community share their gender status with me, I welcome them into my life with open arms. I accept their lifestyle as a natural condition, and never question why they have chosen that persuasion. I also read about their lives and listen to their stories to reduce my ignorance. Finally, I show them respect by including them in my life; for example, I listen to the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus to hear incredible singing.

I befriend people of all races and treat them as valuable contributors to my life. During this crisis, I have financially assisted some people so that they can maintain their small businesses. I know that my concern for them strengthens our bond and friendship. If I didn’t have the money for helping them, I would have helped establish a Go Fund Me page or found another way to provide some help.

I actively seek the beauty in members of races different from me. For example, I love the braided hairstyles of African Americans that demonstrate their creativity and African culture. Whenever I can, I compliment a man or woman on his or her hairstyle.

Another attractive trait I’ve discovered are the traditional costumes of Indian citizens with yards and yards of glittering fabrics swirled around the female body. When I meet a woman of Indian heritage on the street, I tell her she is lovely.

The Corona Virus has brought danger, but also opportunity—the chance to become a human of integrity. I am not beautiful if I don’t see the inherent, non-judged loveliness in my sisters and brothers. Only if I accept them completely will I ever achieve integrity—the pinnacle of spiritual life.

Shelter-in-Place Love Letters

Being in love requires true humility. Loving someone means that you show your vulnerability and reveal your imperfections. For someone like me that strives with great effort for perfection, admitting that I make mistakes only follows a very large and irritated sigh.

Loving well also takes commitment, even when the other person has a perennial runny nose or forgets to put the toilet seat down. Ugh. Maybe commitment is even more important than romance because, when your beloved gently comments that you’ve overcooked the halibut, the romance flies out the open window. He can’t even boil an egg.

I must be pretty humble because I truly am in love. I’m in love with the man with whom I’m sheltering-in-place.

I met Bob about seven years ago and fell in love with his picture on the dating website. There he was, dressed in short-sleeve shirt and dress trousers, a security clearance badge draped around his neck.

Oh, I’d met handsome guys—one, a tall sailor with a ruddy smile and thick, brown hair that rippled in the wind as we zig-zagged over the San Francisco Bay in his 32-foot sailboat. A less-tall jeweler who dressed impeccably and wore a gold chain around his neck. A dashing pilot who sensually danced the rumba. None of these, however, wore a security clearance badge.

What did that badge say to me? Intelligent. Trustworthy. You don’t get issued a badge like that if you’re a dunce or irresponsible. By standing in front of his assistant’s camera that day with his badge around his neck, this man passed Level 1 without me even meeting him. Not just smart—intelligent. Not just dependable—trustworthy.

He didn’t have much written on his profile, so I asked him to write about himself. He said, “No, let’s just meet and see if we like each other.”

Damn! I liked conducting preliminary research before investing actual time. Still, that badge shone like a golden ticket in his photo—beckoning me like a male siren.

Bob called me one weekday from work, and I was teaching class, so I couldn’t answer my phone. Later, I called him back. “He’s at his 3:00 meeting,” his assistant said cheerily. “May I tell him who is calling?”

“Tell him that Tess is returning his call,” I said, thinking that going to a meeting every day at 3:00 was ridiculous. What if no one had anything to discuss? What if the world was just perfect that day? Absurd.

“Oooooh, Tess,” the assistant crooned, with emphasis and elation, her voice lilting up and down like an alto singing in a musical.

Geez, they must gossip in his office. She knows my name already, and I haven’t even met him.

A few days later, I drove up to Black Angus Steakhouse at 5:20 p.m. I was early, so I sat in my car for nine minutes, smoothing out my polka-dot sleeveless blouse and navy tiered, knee-length skirt that swished as I walked. My makeup was perfect. My hair was brushed and shining. I was ready for this.

When I walked in the door, Bob was sitting in the restaurant’s lobby, and he looked up expectantly. Mm, I met his expectations apparently.

We sat in the small bar at the first high table. I ordered Chardonnay, and Bob ordered a dry martini with a twist of lemon, up! A hard liquor type, I thought. Old-fashioned.

I had memorized my first-date checklist, so I expertly chatted about some fluffy topics while weaving in my questions. He seemed shy, but got more social after he had downed half of his martini.

“Where do you live?”

“Pleasanton, a great town.”

“Where do you work?”

“Lawrence Livermore Lab.” I had guessed that. You see, I had dated another guy that had worked at the lab, years ago. I also once had worked at Lockheed Martin and had proudly worn my own security clearance badge. I knew Lawrence Livermore Lab was the only government facility in the lower East Bay.

“Enchanted,” I said.

I finished my glass of wine over the next forty-five minutes, and was focusing on how to end the night, but also to ensure a call for future action.

“Would you like to have dinner?” Bob asked.

We both ordered the salmon that night and took that as a sign of compatibility, and we spent the next seven years cleaning out the baggage in his life and hiding mine pretty well. At first, he didn’t know what baggage was, but once we agreed that our lives were knitted together permanently, he called up the “Got Junk” people and they took it all away. All of it. Wow. By that time, I had cleaned out my hidden baggage too, or at least sent its energy into outer space.

Last April 6^th, Bob and I married each other at Peace Lutheran Church, a small but beautiful dwelling set upon a wooded property. Our family and friends came to celebrate our late-in-life blooming love.

They recited prayers and rang the chimes as we exchanged our vows, and now we live together in my 1950 square-foot, two-story house in a charming neighborhood. We take walks, go out to dinner, stroll nearby beaches, read books, learn Spanish, and watch movies—all together.

Life was going along swimmingly until recently. After we got married, we took an Eastern European cruise on the Danube from Budapest to Prague, through Hungary, Slovakia, Austria, Germany, and Czechoslovakia. This was Bob’s first trip to Europe (amazing) and my first trip to Eastern Europe. I especially loved seeing Czechoslovakia since I am part Bohemian and proud of this wild heritage.

In January, we just finished planning this summer’s trek to Italy and Slovenia. Oops. Poor timing for going to see Pope Francis who is holed up by his lonesome in St. Peter’s Square. Even Slovenia has been hit by the Corona Virus, but Italy has been devastated.

Now, our first anniversary is coming up on April 6^th, and, according to the news reports, we still will be sheltering-in-place. No going out to our favorite Bridges Restaurant. No visiting our favorite beach town, Pacific Grove. No wine tasting in Napa, Sonoma, Livermore, or Paso Robles. Nada, but sheltering-in-place.

I suggested that we celebrate by having a ceremony at home. Bob couldn’t imagine what kind of ceremony we could have without an official coming by.

“We don’t need an official,” I said. “Nobody helped us fall in love, so we don’t need anybody to help us celebrate our first anniversary.”

He agreed pensively. Maybe he needed an official more than I thought–maybe he was thinking about that life coach that he had hired to teach him how to date. I hope he didn’t pay her too much.

“What to do?” I queried. “I know, you could teach me how to dance,” I chirped.

“You could teach me,” he said. “I’m no dancer.”

I laughed, but then got serious inside. Why would I want Bob to change the way he dances? When he puts his long, strong arms around me and shuffles around with a miniscule rhythm in his hips, I’m in heaven. Any dance step that I would show him would require us to pull out of that pose of perfect bliss where I feel loved, cherished, and wanted.

No dance lessons. He’s a perfect dancer already.

Ever since before we were married, I’ve been asking Bob to write me a love letter. I have a little ceramic box in my living room with an angel perched on its lid. Inside the box is enough space to store a love letter, and it’s empty now.

“I’m no writer,” Bob’s always declares.

I think it’s true that the more you advertise a product, the more likely you are to sell it. Don’t just advertise your decorated rocks on Facebook one time–show them a hundred times, and someone will buy one. I must have done a good job of selling my idea about this love letter because this is what Bob said next. “I’m not exactly a strong writer.”

“But, you’re the perfect love-letter writer for me,” I responded. I can be charming sometimes.

“Ok, I’ll try,” he said from his arm chair, his hands holding his coffee cup like it was a vanilla ice cream sandwich made with chocolate chip cookie wafers. One side of his mouth turned up like a bad-boy grin underneath his neatly-trimmed gray and dark mustache. Dervishly handsome he is.

So, we’ve agreed. For our first anniversary, we are going to write each other love letters. I’m a writer, but I know when I start writing mine, I’m going to feel vulnerable and shy.

What I can do to build my confidence?

I have the advantage that the object of my love, now retired, once was trusted enough to be issued a top security clearance badge. If Lawrence Livermore Lab could trust Bob with its secrets, then I can trust him with my heart.

I’ll take out that picture of Bob from the dating website and focus on the badge.