Do you know, I'd cross the expanse of space-time to get you back?
Do you know, when I say hello and you look everywhere but my face, I'd risk a thousand Shelobs to have you smile at me?
Do you know I'm sorry I kept thinking I'd have time to talk on the phone to you, but it was always, always later? I'm so, so sorry.
I'm so sorry.
I'd sacrifice my own mental health if I could feel your tender arms around me, knowing who I am.
I'd go through a hundred Odysseys, descend through a million circles of hell, to find your memory and relieve your suffering.
I'm still praying for you. You've got me praying regularly again, of course you have.
I know you always prayed for me, and honestly, I wonder if your prayers are the reason I survived this far.
You seemed to recognize me for a little while, twenty minutes or so. You told me the story of when you were little and a hurricane blew your roof off.
You grew up so different from me, an extroverted model, the second-youngest of seven siblings who married a wonderful Italian-American while she was still a teenager. I remember you telling me about your adventures with your sassy sister Phyllis, about your boyfriends and your ice cream job.
I remember how you got your license even though you didn't need it, how you went to college when you were older, how you worked until 82 because you liked it.
When I was little I wanted to write a novel based on you. Sometimes I still entertain the idea.
Do you know your house was my safe place when I was little? How I looked forward to our visits like vacation? The rhythmic rush of cars down the main street, Papa chasing us twins as the Big Bad Wolf, drinking "fizzy water" at your minibar and playing in the triangle-shaped tub, they were such soothing treats to my little soul.
Your generosity, in true Italian family style, is still what I think of whenever I'm serving pasta or ice cream.
It's only a slight exaggeration to say your fudge changed my life. And the bacon - my word, I got sick on too much bacon at your house once!
And do you know your orange tabby, Terry, was the one who triggered my love for cats?
I love you. I miss you.
Mimi, I hope I'll see you again soon, in the hospital or (I hope) back home. And I hope this time you'll see me, too. There is so much love, you know, our days can never be enough, but I guess that's how love is.
I guess you already knew that, though.