by cheri sabraw
Today in San Gimignano, an old woman dressed in blue caught my eye. Her nylon stockings, pumps, and oversized purse all stylized her in an elegant fashion as she rested before heading down the tile street.
That such a woman and I would intersect at such an opportune photographic moment is not surprising, not today.
My mother at age 78 was with us the last time we traveled to Italy seven or so years ago. She couldn’t walk by herself or hear but boy could she smile.
On the plane last night with my compression stockings pressing in around my calves like circular wrenches (my mother wore such stockings all the time for her lymphedema) and with a gentleman sitting diagonal to me wearing a cochlear implant (my mother lost her hearing during a serious bought of meningitis and wore a cochlear implant), I had a strong sense my mother was, once again, with us on our way to Florence and the Tuscan countryside.
Then again this morning when a Lufthansa flight attendant offered me my choice of jam, I reached blindly into the basket and my fingers emerged with apricot, mom’s favorite.
Are these coincidences?
I now question my spur-of-the-moment decision to include some of my mother’s ashes in a small vile that sits tucked in a corner of my purse.
Should I have declared her at the security checkpoint?
She is here with us. Now, I must decide where to sprinkle her.