As of late, for whatever reason, even the center’s chaplain has noticed a lightness in Mom’s demeanor. He asked me one day, What did I attribute her change to? And all I can imagine is that, in the midst of all her letting go’s, she is becoming closer to the perfect state of being, that is, of being human.
To be in her presence during these times is an awe-inspiring event, such that I am often brought to tears for no particular reason. She and I exist in this state between my grief, and her pulling towards home.
My mother was named after her birth father, Vinzenzo, who lost a battle to meningitis before he met his little girl. Some of Mom’s official documents note that her birth name was Vinzenzella, and not Vinzenza, as originally thought. This came to light a few times over the decades, as she pursued a passport for our trip to Italy. As I went back and read through many of her personal papers, including high school reunion programs, I immediately sympathized with her, and the fact society continued to rebrand her first and last name constantly. Misspellings abound.
Ironically, when I call her Vinzenzella, she repeats the name so fluently, it is like song coming from her heart.
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