Turin (1930 -2005)

I’m in NYCity this week attending Turin’s, my mother, final arrangements. She passed away on Saturday morning after a seemingly endless month in which she had two major operations and laid in a “near like coma.” I’m grateful that her suffering has ended.

I’ve wondered about this moment many times and how I would react. I didn’t think I would be overwhelmed with emotions, or saddened in any way, or even feel the need to reach out to anyone. There’s no manual, which I know of, on how to mourn the passing of a relation that most people love to death, yet with which I have no connection other than our biological bond.

Beyond the feeling of relief that she no longer was suffering and the empathy I had for my Sis, who had grown close to Turin in these past three years, I really didn’t feel anything. I came to pay me respects because that what was expected. Tongues would wag for years had I skipped this.

Almost all of my time at the funeral parlor was spent in the entryway getting reacquainted with my cousins, some of who I haven’t seen in over 20 years. Of the 30 mourners who came, only 12 had actually met Turin; her sister and 3 nieces, my dad and his three siblings, my Honey (who met her once), and obviously, my siblings and me.

Final rites were held at Holy Cross on Soundview Avenue in the Bronx. I am in no way shape or form religious in any way, but there was some comfort in returning to the church that has been in our lives for many years. Melany, my youngest sis (9 years old) was baptized there, Norbert, my best friend during high school, was very active in this church when we used to hang out, my nephew Jonathan works there on the weekends as a youth counselor, and my grandmother’s funeral was held there.

My Honey and I were pallbearers and as we carried her casket into church I chanted to myself “light, light, light as a feather.” Jonathan, a professional pallbearer (at $20 per funeral,) guided us through the process.

At the repast, in my Sis’s home, we carried on like any other family gathering. We changed out of our monkey suits into more comfortable jeans and t-shirts. Although famished, we nibbled lightly on the laid out snacks because we knew someone was on their way with food from Frankie and Johnny’s Pine Tavern. Cheese, my nemesis, was coated on two of the three dishes … rats.

A photo album was passed around and finally ended up on my lap. Sis compiled all the loose photos she found amongst Turin’s possessions. There were many candid photos of her hanging with friends and family members we never met (one of her in a bikini that I never need to see again). We asked Wichy, Turin’s sister (who I met for the first time,) to tell us the stories of the people in the photos. She didn’t recognize many of them, but did elaborate on the family members. “This is your cousin, she lives in Florida. This is your uncle, he’s in PR. This is your aunt, she died many years ago.” Turin had 13 brothers and sisters of which 4 still survive.

I flipped through the album three times and could not find one picture of me. There were many of my brother and sister. I asked everyone to humor me and agree that the anonymous boy sitting in a wash basin in the black and white photo was me. There needed to be at least one more connection.

I’m spending the rest of the week in Susie’s home before heading back into the hell that is known as “Retail Christmas.” I intend on making memorable connections with my goddaughters, friends, and remaining family members. Holler if you want to hang.