In Loving Memory...
It's been one year since you left this world. After more than seventy-five thousand agonizing hours confined to bed. I rarely said the things that mattered. Because I thought I had all the time in the world. Until I didn’t.
This is all I want to remember about you.

Your calloused hands after endless hours of laying frames of steel and concrete on high-rises in Bucharest that you proudly pointed at when you walked by, “I did this.”
The laughter, bickering, and chopping sounds that came from our kitchenette on Saturday mornings, when you and Mom concocted the best smoked pork borscht.
Your weary smile on freezing winter nights when you were taking off your wool socks melted into your frostbitten feet.
Your rushed walk to our second-floor apartment where my sisters and I were anxiously waiting to grab an ice cream cone from your hands: vanilla, chocolate, raspberry, or pistachio.
The bucket of flowers that you brought home on Mom’s birthday every May: peonies, roses, tulips, irises, carnations.
The cheap lilac cologne that you sprayed on your face after you shaved on Sunday mornings when you didn’t go to church, but Mom did.
The loud kisses that you planted on my cheeks when I did something well – in school or at home.
The excitement that you infused in our family’s New Year’s preparations when out-of-town relatives were coming to visit.
Your cringey expressions that I laughed at, but which I started sharing with my son (and still don’t make any sense): “I don’t know so-and-so because I didn’t go to their baptism”, “If you don’t hurry, you’ll miss the train, but you can catch the station.”
Your made-up stories that kept us awake long after you said good night.
The bag of caramels that you hid under my pillow on Saint Nicholas Day.
Your “Ciao, bambina” greeting that was met with a quizzical look by the Italian cashier at the Zellers store at Erin Mills Town Centre in Mississauga.
But, above all, I want to remember the sacrifices that you made for us by going to places where you didn’t belong only to be able to put more food on the table. Living among strangers whose language you didn’t speak.
I want to remember how you spent your hard-earned money to bring me a gift from The White City: a gold necklace that I wear with love.
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