Mom and Bocelli

Mom introduced me to him several years before she died

And he comforted her throughout

He’s blind, you know, which I did not know

I loved to watch her, sitting in her favorite chair, body rocking, her eyes closed,

I imagine her still, mouthing the words she could not pronounce

Italian opera coming through speakers of her silver boom box

Before I left the coast, before she died

I bought two tickets instead of paying my electric bill

She said, dear I haven’t been to a concert since the Dorsey’s

And I said, well, we’re going

We drove to Philly and talked about mother daughter stuff

And listened to his words melt through my speakers

We had two tickets and two tuna sandwiches

At the over-under bridge, there was a back-up

and we started to laugh about needing a bathroom

and we agreed that you should not laugh when you need a bathroom

and then, of course, we laughed harder still

Inside, we sat above, mezzanine

And there he was, no more than from here to there

Before long Mom and I cried and held hands

Near the end he sang our favorite, Nessun Dorma

We squeezed hands and sobbed and soaked a pile of tissues

Through his blind eyes I will always see my mother.

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Filed under Personal Articles, Prose & Poetry

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