My neighbor Silvia died. She was 98 years old. In 7th grade, my son interviewed her for a project he was doing and she told him about her life. She was born in 1911, and immigrated from Cuba in 1932. She married soon after, had three daughters, lived on Fifth Avenue, and basically lived a happy life. In fact, the interview with my son ended with her saying, “I love to have somebody taking care of me and cooking and all that. THAT I LIKE! I like comfort. Yes. And I do like New York City. A lot. I have lived a long long time here…a lot of years… and I don’t think I’d change it for anything.”
The funeral was today and after the funeral the mourners came back to her apartment which is right next to mine. Kiko, one of Silvia’s nephews, knocked on my door around noon. I had given Silvia’s daughter a copy of the interview Alexander had transcribed and he came over to thank me and invite me over. I appreciated his thoughtfulness and said that I would.
When I answered the door I was still in my walking clothes from 6:45 this morning. So I showered and changed. It felt good not to have to agonize over clothes. I pulled a straight- black Sonia Rykiel skirt from my closet, one that did not fit last year, and put it on. I checked myself in the full-length mirror and was relieved to notice that my bum was hardly protruding.
Silvia’s relatives appeared to be more joyous than somber. I declined all offers of food, despite how tantalizing they looked, and met some very nice people.
Silvia was well loved and well cared for. She lived a good life. And I was glad to be part of the celebration that honored her.
No comments:
Post a Comment