“Dad, I tested positive for COVID.”

“What?”

“Dad, I cannot come Christmas Eve.”

In the tradition of my Italian culture, fish is eaten on Christmas Eve. This would be the first Christmas Eve my dad ever hosted without my mom.

He was proud when he told me he found the perfect dried cod. “It soaks for days to get all the salt out. It will be ready and perfect on Friday.”

I had perfected a chilled grey goose vodka and cranberry juice since testing positive. On our nightly video chat, perfected drink in hand, my father asked with a sincere and thoughtful tone, “What the hell am I going to do with all this fish?”

50

there were a few periods in my life.

that i almost pleased my mom.

wedding magazines full of virgin white dresses.

we sat over full fat cappuccinos.

a local bookstore.

we would normally drive right past.

to the macy’s at the mall.

my mother said proudly.

said loudly.

“yes…

i am not sure when

i stopped breathing

i was so good. for so long.

taking a deep breathe in

1.2.3.4.

my lungs filled with air

unlike decades ago.

camel cigarette smoke for as long

as i could hold it.

breathe out circles slowly.

i felt a warm buzz that lasted

from the time i sat at the bar

on rusty a stool with ripped plastic

my skinny self

stared at you playing pool

quit cigarettes before i ever quit you.

1.2.3.4.5.6.7.8.

ahhhhhhhhhh. i breathe out.

i can finally sit in a place that honors you mom.

not the 6-roommate house with a dirty couch

even dirtier carpet.

you never got to see it.

i use your memory

in the way i keep this place

the way i shop for bargains at marshall’s.

the way i promised you i would marry for love

because you never could.

as i said earlier, i discovered i was okay with my death. finally.

it’s while i am alive that i am not okay with your death.

tony’s tragic car accident. killed everyone. except his girlfriend. not his love. she spoke at his funeral.

nonna, at age 91. you meant everything…

i finally whisper these words to myself

“i will die someday.”

i could never imagine in my 50 years that i would say that.

i finally did. just a few days ago.

i realized i will probably die after my 82 year old father who relies on our 7:30 am, 12:30 pm, 5:30 pm, and 7:30 pm daily calls.

my husband will be fine.

i was able to reconcile in my mind that the 2 most important human beings in my life since my mother died will be dead. or okay.

there is a sense of, i take a deep breath in, slow deep breath out

that i will die. and be okay.

after waking up in the middle of the night with pain that superseded my sleep medication, i knew another trip to urgent care was needed. urgent care is kind of like a lower level emergency room. the vibe is that you couldn’t get a doctor’s appointment so you showed up…

“adriana, you are just like my aunt grace. same age. her hair in a tight bun off her face. innocent just like you.”

never in my life has anyone called me innocent. when i was young, my uncle called my trouble. he lost his business. drank too much. instead of…