Somber anniversary

Yesterday was a year to the day that K's mother died. I didn't know how he would handle it. I had worried that my friends' wedding we had planned to go to might not be a good idea. I didn't know if K would prefer to just stay at home and relax.

We hadn't talked about the weekend and what it marked until late last week. I didn't know how to bring it up, or if I even should. We were on the phone, and I asked K if he was okay with going to the wedding that weekend. He said he just wanted to spend it with me, no matter what we were doing. He said it was kind of his mom's last wish that they not dwell on her death. She told them they could take two days to mourn, but after that, she wanted them to go on with their lives.

I still remember very well the day that she died. I woke up around 9:30 and called K. His mom was still alive, but she was fading pretty quickly that morning. Feeling helpess and so far away, since I was still in Texas, I decided to make it a productive day, so I started cleaning my apartment. I can still remember that it smelled like a mixture of bathroom cleaner and Clorox wipes when my phone started ringing to the tune of "Sweet Home Alabama" just a bit before noon. The ringtone told me it was K, and after our brief conversation just a few hours earlier, I knew the reason for the call.

I was surprised how hard it was to hear she was gone. She'd been sick for a long time, so everyone knew it was coming. K's dad had called him the weekend before to tell him he needed to get home because the doctors had said she only had a few days. She died peacefully, with her two sons, her husband, and her sisters, brother and in-laws by her side. She'd been sick for over 20 years, so at least everyone could take comfort in the fact that she would no longer be hurting.

I'd only met K's mom three times. She was frail and weak, and she'd lost a lot of weight in the months before we met. It was really hard for K to see her like that. He said she taught him how to be a man, and there she was, barely able to do anything for herself. You could still tell, though -- through the way she fought and held on longer than the doctors said she would, and how she'd manage to bounce back and have a great day when she couldn't move or talk the day before -- that she was the same strong Italian woman K had told me so much about.

I had always dreamed that someday I'd get to tell her how much I loved K and that I was going to take care of him. I wanted to tell her how wonderful he is and how much respect he has for her. I wanted to have a great relationship with her. I wanted her to be my mother-in-law, and I wanted us to be close. I never got to tell her any of those things.

K told me that his mother had said around Easter of last year that she knew K and I would get married someday. It meant a lot to me that she'd been able to see that, and I hope it meant she knew on her own all the things I didn't get to say.

K keeps a picture of his mother in his truck, right above his steering wheel. He also keeps a picture of her next to his bed. From time to time when things somehow manage to work out just right -- like last Fourth of July, when it started pouring right before the fireworks display, and just when we decided to start gathering up our things and follow the majority of people who were running out of the park, blankets over their heads, to their cars, the rain stopped as suddenly as it started -- K looks up to the sky and says, "Thanks, Mom!"

I still wish I could've gotten to know her before she got so sick. I still wish I could've told her all the things I'd wanted to say. I know she's in Heaven, though, and I know she's not struggling now. I know she's watching over K, which means she watches over me, too. And it's always good to have a tough Italian woman on your side.