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TITLE (EDIT)
Addio, Mama Mia |
DESCRIPTION
A Priest visits his aged Mother.
[1,495 words] |
AUTHOR
Paul V. Fornatar |
ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
After forty years of teaching school, I thought I would spend my retirement years writing. I've published five books, two novels, a teaching memoir, and two anthologies of short stories. Also tucked away in my drawer are 8 more novels, and 325 short stories, 75 have appeared in various magazines. I guess I love to write. It makes me feel young.
"Addio, Mama Mia" was the first story I submitted in my writing career. It was purchased in four days.
[March 2000] |
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL ADDRESS
[email protected] |
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (3)
A Dish Of Yogurt (Short Stories) Sometimes we assume too much, and sometimes we don't assume enough. [1,158 words]
A Family That Stays Together (Short Stories) The old bromide about the family that prays together stays together is carried to an extreme here. [895 words]
Flight Of Angels (Short Stories) Maybe it's something about airports, maybe it's flying and maybe it's something else. Check it out on your next flight. [1,038 words]
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Addio, Mama Mia
Paul V. Fornatar
Noisy remnants of summer chased after me in the late morning breeze as I walked to the Little Sisters of the Poor Rest Home. I mused over the name and the anguish of the
people inside "resting," awaiting for their final rest. Several fragments of Chicago Cub pennants scrapped the sidewalk ahead of me. It had been another year without a pennant or a pitching staff. I quickened my step to see if I could move them along as when I was a boy kicking stones in the neighborhood.
My mama and papa, not too long from the boat, and the shores of Italy, settled in a building five blocks away from The Little Sisters of the Poor. It was one of those tall three
story, high-ceilinged apartment buildings that had seven rooms and wooden porches out back.
I came along three months after they arrived in America, and Chicago in particular. Mama was eighteen and papa was nineteen. They married in Naples and were welcomed
to the new world by "da ladeee with da light!" as my Papa used to say. I don't remember much about Papa because he died when I was six years old. All I can remember is the smell of his cigar smoke, and the feel of his mustache. He must have
been a strong man because I also remember the power of his embraces. The rest, mama told me about, creating a full feel of my Papa.
He died the year after my sister Josephine was born. Mama used to tell me that he would take us to Mass on Sunday just to show us off. He thought we were the best looking kids ever born if not the most tranquil.
When I was six, Papa went to church early one Sunday for the Holy Name Mass. Mama stayed with Josephine and me and would go to Mass when Papa returned. He didn't make it home that morning because he was shot to death a block away from home. Later some of his Holy Name men told us Papa was caught between two angry gangs. I didn't know what they meant by "gangs" but I knew Papa would never come back. I do remember Father Angelo telling me that Papa would go directly to heaven because he was
a good man. I never forgot that.
Mama was left with little and while some of the neighbors offered whatever aid they could afford, it wasn't enough. Times were hard so Mama took in two little old ladies as borders. She had been a seamstress in the old country and so, she tacked a sign outside on the house seeking business. Father Angelo announced at Mass one day that Mama would welcome any one who needed a seamstress. And, they came.
As I pulled the door open at Little Sisters, the whole past seem to play itself out in front of me. Mama had been a wonderful, loving and hardworking mother. She could
scare the Lord into us and at the same time be as soft as a dove's breast. She managed to sew enough to feed, clothe and send my sister and me to school.
When I finally graduated high school, I told mama I wanted to be a priest. I knew she couldn't possibly afford it, but somehow she found a way.
Years later, when I became the priest she created with her needles and thread, she kept the old house and still sewed. Then five years ago, when she didn't know who she was, or when she was supposed to eat, we had to decide what to do with Mama.
Josephine had her own problems: a seriously retarded child who would never be able to feed himself, and a husband who picked up and left her.
I was a pastor at St. Joseph's Church and could only visit mama to see that she was cared for and was comfortable. The good nuns at Little Sisters loved Mama because she was a funny, happy woman even when she didn't know who she was. The Sisters ran
an efficient, clean and holy home.
Sister Mary Immaculata always met me at the door at
such visits and told me, "Father, she's on her toes today," and then quickly moved away to her other duties. On some days she would say, "Pray God, Father, it'll be a short day." She
would smile and then slowly walk away.
For the past five years, things were going along quite well considering.... Then Doctor Saletta called and said he wanted to talk to me. He asked me if I was going to see Mama that afternoon and I said it depended on what he had to say. We spoke for twenty minutes and then I left, knowing that Mama would probably want to know.
There is a harsh beauty and peace in knowing that a life will not last much longer. Perhaps the remaining days might take on a happier tone, getting ready to meet God. I wondered how Mama would take it. Like everything else, she would take it in stride and take her news to the shoulder of St. Anthony or the bosom of St. Joseph.
Sister Mary Immaculata smiled when she saw me and said, "She's on her toes today, Father."
I doffed my hat, nodded, smiled and walked down the hall to Mama's room. She was seated next to a west window saying her rosary amidst shafts of sunlight. For a moment she looked like an angel, glowing in the pure light, her hair silvery and her
eyes like shinny coals. I stood at her door hoping never to forget this beautiful sweet woman who had done so much for me, who had made me the man I became. Her fingers now slowed by arthritis fumbled with the beads as her lips moved quickly and silently.
I cleared my throat and she looked up at me. She seemed to glisten in the celestial glow of the sun.
"Hey, Father..."
"Hello Mama. How are you?" I hugged and kissed her. I shuddered a bit when I felt how feeble she had become.
"Ma, how-ah canna I be. I'mah so old, Father."
"Do you know who I am, Mama?"
"Si, you-ah my priest. I'mah confessah today, Father?"
"No, Mama. You're a saint all ready. You don't have to confess today. All those times you worked till the middle of the night to support Josephine and me...you've said a hundred years of penance, Mama." I smoothed back her thinning white hair, as she looked up at me with moist eyes--not crying but moist.
"Father, whoah this Josephine?"
"Your daughter, Mama."
"Ah, my daughter. She goodah woman, Father?"
"The best, Mama. You did a wonderful job," I said. I sat with her and held her hand. Every so often she smiled, then turned and looked out the window. I squeezed her hand. I wondered if this was the time to tell her. Perhaps it would
be better for her not to know. Just accept the end as a gift from God.
"Hey, Father. Howah you? I'm a confessah, today?"
"No, Mama."
"Ahh...domani?"
"Maybe tomorrow, Mama. I love you so much, Mama." My eyes filled and I tried to pinch the tears away.
"No cryah. I loveah you too, Father."
She squeezed my hand as I bent down to kiss her. I felt her face hot against my cheeks and smelled her scent that I remembered since a child. I moved toward the door, and then turned for perhaps the last time to see her lostin her Glorious Mystery of the Holy Rosary. Her lips were young, her fingers old and gnarled.
If the doctor was right, this would be the last time I would see her alive. Sister Mary Immaculata was waiting for me outside.
"Father, I'm sorry I gave you the hopeful message today."
"Oh, that's all right, Sister. At least she is sitting up and enjoying the sun and her prayers."
"Father, she doesn't seem to be at all lucid--- now. Did she recognize you?"
"No, not really. I've seen it coming on slowly, Sister. Perhaps it's better this way."
I nodded, put my hat on and left the Little Sisters of The Poor. I walked away from the building looking back every so often wondering if I should return and tell Mama-- even if she didn't know who she was, or who Josephine was, or who I was....
A gush of cool air came from behind me as I began to pray on the way back to St.Joseph's.
"Oh, God, watch over my mother. She has done so much for me and my sister. Hold her close to you. I'm sorry I couldn't tell her, Lord. I am such a coward. Lord, I don't mind that you'll be calling soon, but I worry about her. Keep her safe, Lord. Protect her from anymore sorrow. Never let her know that I died."
c.1997
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"I like it - It's tough to find this quality in less than 1500 words - I'm also learning that you get more readers for the short, short, stories, especially on this site. Good job!" -- Dick Koss, Ohio.
"Dear Dick,Thanks for the comments. I've tried to write short. You are correct in thinking that short shorts sell. I've had 75 published. " -- Paul Fornatar, Chicago, Il.
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COPYRIGHT NOTICE
© 1997 Paul V. Fornatar |
STORYMANIA PUBLICATION DATE
March 2000 |
NUMBER OF TIMES TITLE VIEWED
2104
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