Happy Heavenly 23rd Birthday (A Reimagining of Last Kiss by Pearl Jam)

Happy heavenly 23rd birthday my sister. It is now one year since you departed this earthly domain. 

Rosa was 22 on the day: having recently met a new guy she liked and she was going on a date. I can remember her at home in our bathroom. She was getting ready, fussing over her earrings in the mirror, beaming with a youthful exuberance. Then it was onto her hair.

“How about this length? Does this stand out too much? How about this?” These were questions she asked us as her hands fidgeted and adjusted. Our youngest sister Francesca had been looking on, watching Rosa get ready, with the kind of admiration and envy, of someone not old enough to go out on a date yet, as she was 14. I was standing in the doorway and Fran was next to Rosa in front of the mirror. It was as if Rosa was adolescent again, aged 15 and going to the school dance.

She applied her pink blush to her cheeks.

“Can I put some on too?” Fran asked Rosa.

“Why? Have you met someone as well?” Rosa replied, warmly smiling back. “Here you go.” Rosa handed the container to Fran. Rosa finally had her hair the way she wanted it, and set it in place with hairspray. Plumes of spray went up in the room. I coughed at the strong scent.  

“Oh Pasquale, you boys. Hmm there, done!” Rosa had said. with a quick breath out, that fogged up the mirror, she got up and left the room.

“Brent is it?” My mum had asked Rosa, appearing at the door entrance.

“Yes his name is Brent.”

“Eat something before you go, it’s just keeping warm in the oven.”

“Mum, I’m going out for dinner, to a restaurant, I don’t need any food.”

Mum turns to Fran and says, “Now Rosa is grown up, the oldest of my children, she’s not going to eat with us anymore.”

Fran giggles.

“Now about this boy, is he Italian? What does he do?”

“Mum, I told you 6 months ago, when I had my very first date with him.”

“Oh, I’m just worried.”

 “No he’s not Italian, he works as a hairdresser. It’s his families’ business.”

“Does he have money? A car? He better be a good driver.” 

“Ah mum! So many questions.” Rosa went into a different room, mum followed.  

 “You’re not going out late, be back by 8.30pm. Don’t go to his house. Don’t kiss him.”

“Mum!” this was interrupted by a car horn outside.

“That’s him.” Rosa rushed down the corridor to the front door. “Bye dad.”

“Fare bravo,” dad replied.

“Yes I’ll be good. Bye guys,” Rosa waves at Fran and I who are watching from down the corridor. We wave back. The front door creaked open, I heard mum say something to Rosa. I could hear from inside, rain falling on the car port. Rosa closed the door. 

It wasn’t long before mum answered the phone.

“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” Mum dropped the phone and fell over in shock, with tears flowing and letting out haunting cries.

“What’s the matter?” Exclaimed Fran rushing over and tugging at her shirt as mum lay on the ground. Dad had come into the room as well, picking mum up in his arms and helping her up. I picked up the phone. It was Brent.

I turned on the loudspeaker setting. Brent spoke, through tears.

“We hadn’t driven very far in my dad’s car. I was driving normally when there in the road, straight ahead, there was a car stalled, the engine was dead. It was stopped in the middle of the lane. I couldn’t stop, so I swerved to the right. The car made contact with the stalled vehicle. I’ll never forget the sounds tonight. The tyres, the glass, the scream I heard last.” 

I was processing what he was telling me; while watching my family around me react. I asked for specifics on Rosa’s last moments. 

Brent continued. “It was raining but I could see there were people standing all around the accident scene. Blood came down my eyes from the cuts on my head. Through the blood and the confusion, I found Rosa’s hand and grabbed it. She said hold me darling, just a little while. I held her close and lifted her head and gave her our last kiss.” 

Then there were accident enquiries. Had he consumed alcohol? Road conditions? But it was clear, it was purely an accident in dark and wet conditions.

As people arrive over the next few days, we welcome them at the door, or side fence. 

“Hello,” aunts and uncles say, and nephews greet, with a firm handshake and a nod. As they all console us. We are red eyed from crying and tired from no sleep.

“Oh, she was so young,” Zia Nancy says to me. Then she hugs my mum. My dad, who never shows his emotion, breaks down in tears. He is hugging his brother, my uncle Joe. 

A knocking at the back door signals yet more relatives, stepping over the door threshold balancing big bowls of salad, covered with cling film. Pasta trays are brought through the house covered with tea towels to keep warm from the ovens they came from. It is our families’ tradition to help ease the grieving process, by cooking meals for us, in a time we are not thinking or concerned about food. There is more then enough brought over for tonight and for a couple of days-worth. 

My Zia handed my mum her home-made sauce, ready for pasta, for another night.

“Thanks,” said my mum taking the container from her hand. It is a tomato base, with a creamy consistency. It was always Zia’s secret sauce, as she never revealed to anyone what she put in it. Much to my mum’s dismay.

We sit at the dining table with our relatives in front of the prepared meals. Small chatter among us, but subdued and in murmur. I look down at my bowl, and I was turning the food with my fork: I was thinking the number of times I have had this and have enjoyed it. However, the appetite just wasn’t there. My Nonna encourages me to eat. “C’mon Pasquale, you need to eat, you will feel better with a full stomach.” I start eating, I don’t want to upset Nonna. Grief in the place of the warmth we previously had at the table. But everyone else here with us is certainly a help and a distraction and they comfort us. Dad was eating, mum wasn’t and Fran was mostly sipping her juice or eating bread. We laugh at times, almost as a distraction. It is a coping mechanism. The relatives eventually leave, then it is just us.

The remaining plates of food and bowls fill our fridge. Full of food. We don’t have an appetite, so we go through the food slower than we would otherwise.

Six days after the accident and the day before the funeral, there is a knock at the door.

Dad answers. It’s Brent, he’s holding flowers.

“Hello Sir. My dad’s waiting out there, I just wanted to bring these by,” Brent says lifting the bouquet up. An engine is humming in the background.

“Of course. You can come in, please.”

“Okay, thanks. I’ll just tell my dad I’ll be longer.”

“Brent is here, I’ve invited him in,” Dad tells Mum. “He looks so awkward, so upset. Doesn’t look like he’s slept much either.”

“Oh, poor thing,” Mum replies. “I wonder how he’ll be at the funeral.” 

“Tell him to sit at the couch when he comes back, I’ll put a coffee on,” Dad says. “Go and join your mother Pasquale and Fran.”

Brent gives the flowers to my mum.

“Oh, it’s beautiful.” Mum takes the flowers, finds a vase and places them in with fresh water. “Do not blame yourself. It was a tragic accident. Rosa was so excited to have met you,” Mum says.

Brent replies, “You know, sometimes I think about that song, Last Kiss. About losing someone you love and having to be good so that one day, you can see her again in heaven."

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One year since Rosa’s accident, my sister’s photo is on the bench. Flowers in vases are on both sides of the frame. A flame is burning on a candle: it is a symbol for Rosa’s spirit in heaven. From dawn to dusk it will burn. Mum likes the position as it sits facing the table. Like she’s always watching. When I walk in, I stop, do a sign-of-the-cross on her picture, say a prayer then move away.

Mum prepares a dinner, neatly lays out the table cloth, It’s the nice linen, which is usually only reserved for big occasions, like Christmas or Easter. The mood takes on a feeling of celebration. As it is just what Rosa would have wanted; for us not to be sad. Mum goes over to the stove to start the sauce.

“Oh, not again.” It is an old gas system, it doesn’t light-up straight away. A pot of water is already on the stove, for the pasta to cook. Mum reaches for a lighter to ignite the flame, while she turns the gas on. Then she reaches for a pan, places it down, adds the olive oil. Then she finely chops some garlic and chilli, adds it to the oil and soon there is that familiar sizzle. Soon, mum adds the chopped tomatoes to the pan, and raises the gas temperature on the stove, so it will boil.  

Francesca, walks into the room, smells the aroma of garlic and olive oil. and her eyes go watery, as her face crumples slightly, with emotion. Fran knows straight away, as we all do, Arrabbiata pasta is being prepared, it was Rosa’s favourite.

“Why don’t you both help out your mum?” Dad says. Fran and I nod and join her in the kitchen. Next to the cooktop, is a chopping board with residue from the cut tomatoes. Next to that is a handful of parsley. I reach for the parsley, and open the draw to take out a sharp knife. I starting cutting the parsley. The parsley is so fragrant, as it was picked from the garden 10 minutes before. Fran takes out a block of cheese from the fridge, it is a Pecorino cheese. She grates enough for all of us directly into a bowl, and places the bowl on the table. 

Dad suggests we also have the leftover schnitzel as the main course. Fran opens the fridge door, bends down reaching for some left-over meat. It’s the chicken schnitzel pieces, which were lightly floured with egg and bread crumbs and fried the previous day. Fran takes them out and hands it to mum who starts re-heating them. Meanwhile I take out some lettuce and tomato from the fridge, and give it a wash. Mum tosses it in a salad bowl with some salt and olive oil, then places it on the dining table. Dad takes the chicken from the pan and places it in the oven to keep warm. When the pasta is cooked, mum turns off the sauce, strains the pasta at the sink, and starts distributing it to individual bowls. We then take it all to the dining table, and place it on there.

We are sitting in silence. Dad is the first to speak.

“What is wrong with everyone? Eat. Pasquale, mangia,” dad says to me pointing at the food.

I feel tears welling in my eyes. Fran is staring past mum, and at the photo of Rosa. Mum is holding the fork, looking down at her bowl but not eating it.

“Your mum has gone to the effort of making this.”

“We all did,” Fran replies through tears.

“Well, I’ll start eating then.” Dad starts twirling the pasta, and quickly starts eating forkfuls of it. He roughly grabs the bowl of grated cheese, spilling some on the table.

Mum frowns, “Martino.”

Dad’s eyes are welling with tears. Francesca gets up and walks over to him. She hugs him and he puts his arms around her. My dad motions to me and I get up as well and go over to him. He pulls me into the embrace. I can see mum is watching and wiping tears from her cheeks. Dad can reach mum, and he grabs onto her jumper to pull in her with them. She buries her face into him and we all embrace for a few minutes.

“Now, let’s eat. I know it was Rosa’s favourite but let’s eat,” Mum says. We ate and cheered up as we ate it.

“Well done guys, it was lovely,” dad says.

“Thanks dad,” we respond. 

Mum spoke, “We have to keep our tradition of cooking Rosa’s favourite meal. Arrabbiata. Every year to mark her anniversary.”