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ON THE THIRTY-FIRST OF JULY, the day before I was set to be married, I had Umberto take me to my mother’s grave. The skies were unusually dark for a summer day. One might even have said ominous if one were superstitiously inclined. I appreciated the somber atmosphere. Something about the stillness made me feel more connected to my mother than if it had been a breezy, sunny day. I found her ornate granite headstone where I’d often visited her during those early days. The monument wasn’t my favorite. Dad had ordered the design, likely thinking a lavish tribute was a good way to prove how much he missed the woman he’d killed. I knew better. And I knew Mom was too down-to-earth and unpretentious to have wanted a flashy tombstone over her grave. “Hey, Mama.” My voice was reed thin from pushing
- Writer
