B E B E R E

Such a lucky girl.

I dragged myself home late tonight, wiped-out and down in the mouth. Managed to bring in the mail and the recycle bins before collapsing on my bed.

The phone rang; I didn't answer it.
It rang again. Still, I didn't answer.

Got myself up, schlepped me into the bathroom to rinse off my face. During that time, the phone rang yet again. I managed to pick it up on the last ring; heard Raphaella's voice.

"You're home now?"
"Just got in. Raphaella, they kicked my ass today."
"Yeah, you were gone for so long. They do that to Rosie whenever she goes on vacation."
"God, I don't know how much more I can take."
"You're gonna have to take a lot more if you want to eat and have a roof over your head."

I asked her how her day was. She said that she'd kicked her own ass tying up the fast-fading tomatoes and scrubbing the patio. Asked me if I'd like to take some of the green ones to make relish with (She loves "American" or sweet tomato relish, but doesn't know how to make it. Roberta across the street used to make it, but doesn't bother with a garden anymore now). Told me she wanted to see my new bathroom.

I unlocked the doors, stepped out to meet her halfway and found her in her garden clutching a big, green granny square afghan.

"What's that?" I asked. "It's too warm to need a quilt tonight. What're you doing with that?"

She laughed. "Homemade pasta. I made it for the tomatoes."

She showed me her swollen forearms and arthritic wrists, proof that she'd not only kneaded the dough, but that she'd cut the pasta by hand. "I felt like making pasta today and wanted to save some for you. I kept it in the blanket so it would stay warm. I was thinking about you, and thought you'd like homemade spaghetti tonight."

It took everything for me not to start to cry. How'd I get so lucky?

All I could say was, "Oh, Raphaella, the noodles are as thin as my grandma used to make. This is gonna be so good. It's hot spaghetti, isn't it? Lots of peppers? Thanks, Ma."