Seven years ago this morning, my dad called me in a panic because he couldn’t wake Mom. We had had a similar episode a couple of months earlier (as if she was in a very deep slumber from which she could not be awoken, for reasons no one ever was able to explain), and I expected it to be a repeat. But by the time I alerted the kids to what was up (they were still abed, having no school that way) and got over to my folks’, it was all done. “She’s gone, Bill,” my father said, and that was that.
As I said to my wife this morning, in some ways it seems impossible that it’s already been seven years since Mom died, but in other ways it seems impossible that it’s been only seven years. That is, I guess, the nature of things.
Here’s a great snapshot that I scanned some time back. I suspect it’s from my parents’ dating days, putting it around 1953 or so.
Back row, from left: Mom’s brother, my uncle Tom Bosco; Mom’s father, Carmine Caliendo; Sarah Bosco, Tom’s wife; Mom’s sister, Joan Caliendo; my cousin Connie Bosco, Tom and Sarah’s daughter.
Front row, from left: My cousin Freddy Bosco, Tom and Sarah’s son; Mom and Dad; unknown (I think her name was Sharon); Mom’s brother, Martin Caliendo; Mom’s sister, my aunt Tina Bosco.