Baptismal Waters

Sunday we are baptizing Gabriele. It is not an event that I saw coming, and yet yesterday I found myself in the Richmond room of the Greek Orthodox Church in Oakland. This was the room that 3 1/2 years ago Mimmo and I reluctantly joined our family and friends to eat fish following the funeral of our son, Salvatore. What do I remember about being in that room? The round tables, the numb feeling, the brightness of a sunny day, the darkness of our grief, the family members and friends who came to visit as I just sat there, unable to move. So, now at 3 1/2 years later, with Gabriele in the baby bjorn, he and I entered the empty Richmond room with paper and pen in hand. I came to see the room and decide how I wanted the set up of the tables. Such a different day, such a different occasion, but memories came back to me like ghosts trailing the room.

This is where our table was.

Wow, I never even noticed there was a fireplace or those great big windows.

I decided that, of course, we would need rectangular tables this time. That, of course, we'd need to be facing ourselves in a different direction. Last time we were on the west end of the room. This time I wanted us north, looking south. I realized that almost all the people who would be attending Gabriele's small baptism were also there for Salvatore's funeral. All these details that I was conscious of in this moment and completely unimportant the last time.

What I remember of that day was Mimmo going into hypoglycemia before we left. My 3 youngest cousins outside when we arrived, prepared to carry our small baby boy's plain pine coffin. Walking down the aisle of the church following his coffin and wailing like a matriarch in an old Greek tragedy. I remember being angry. I remember Father Tom speaking about Salvatore's name in Greek. I remember exiting the church and plopping myself on the stairs with Mimmo, both of us unable to move. I remember watching Justin and Matteo, the only 2 small children there, playing while we sat outside and feeling some sense of life by being in the presence of their beauty, innocence, and youth.

What is the use of these memories, a part of myself asks. It happened. You are here now. Blessed with two beautiful children. Life has returned to its normal pace - in our case, the fast trot of a horse, not the slow, hiding turtle's pace I kept in my grief. The hugs and empathetic glances I received back then by my family have returned to emotional distance and occasional judgement. I feel that feeling-sorry-for-myself-everyone-forgets-but-me-be-here-now stance. But, what I have in common with then and now is that I still am without Salvatore. I still am this woman from the same lifetime (just 3 1/2 years later, infact). The difference is now I get that feeling of grief in my throat, tears coming up where before my whole body was submerged and the crying continued loud and soft, under covers with pulled down shades. Now I have thin white curtains that let in the light. Now I have Gabriele's smile, Sofia's potty training, and breastfeeding to keep me occupied.

I still miss you, my dear boy. I still remember.