The Moment

I should remember that moment. The moment I became flesh to the world. Maybe I do remember, in a place where memory has no image or word. Was I red? Did I cry very loud? Was I cold? Frightened? Mother, do you know?

"You have a beautiful little girl, Mrs. Guzzardo."
"Isn't it a pity her husband can't be with her? Especially since it's their first."

And so it was. Born into sadness. Mother, bearing her first child surrounded by a family who loved her, but she was, nevertheless, alone.

Dear Mother,
What was it like for you? When you saw me that very first moment, what filled you? Was it sadness at having to experience this moment all alone, without Dad? Could you be joyful, alone...maybe just because I never `was' before that moment. Does pain hurt more when it is borne alone? Was my first cry satisfying, knowing that I was healthy and alive - at last, alive? And did you realize, now that there was a `me,' you were not alone anymore? Did I feel like part of you? Could you see Dad in me? Did you count all my fingers and toes, check if my ears were flat, touch my skin, my new, soft skin...and then love me with all your heart? I could understand it if you didn't. If you just couldn't, yet.

The conditions for my birth were not ideal. Mom, after thirty-five years at home was finally able to break free of the bonds of responsibility and marry this handsome, dashing Italian. Their life together was cut short by the Army's need for him, which I am sure could never have been as great as the need of this woman. She was so simple and shy and dreamless. He came into her life and transformed it from one of book-reading and looking out windows to something that pulsed with hope and promise. And yes, she deserved this man because she had waited so long.

It was only three months after their wedding that he was called into service. This government of ours made no exceptions for shy, simple women who needed their dreams...and their dream makers. Alone, she returned to her mother's home, still a frightened and shy woman, but now filled with life. A child growing beneath a heart that was broken.

The news of my birth was delivered by phone to this handsome dashing soldier, dressed in army uniform, complete with medals of great honor, pinned neatly over a heart that was also broken.

Dear Dad,
Did you know? I mean, even before the news arrived, that I was here now...and I never was here before. Were the stars brighter that night? Did the air have the excitement of my birth in it? Did you cry? It's ok that you couldn't see me that first moment I was here, red and cold and crying. It was all very understandable, except probably to Mom. You see I wasn't crying because you weren't there. It was because I had never been here before.

The stories I heard about my Dad were all of his goodness and love for people. Life and spirit were as much a part of him as were his features, so striking and beautiful. Dark and handsome and a lover. Oh yes, a lover. Everything he touched took on life, became more. He found something good within everyone. They left his presence transformed.

Bold, dashing, he came to my grandmother's house to repair her radio and found one shy and simple and dreamless child in a woman's body. She stood off in the distance and watched him while he worked, and responded only to his questions.

When he finished, she listened to his footsteps descend the stairs, then caught sight of him through the window as he left, feeling within her for the very first time warmth, excitement, hope — a dream.

Were my parents different from any two people who find each other in the midst of all others? I don't think so. Because they loved, they entered into a world filled with miracles. God spoke to them through each other, through their hearts. "Man and Woman I have created you so you may bring each other to greater life. Then from that place deliver to me one who will bear witness to that life, as an offering." Fruit of the tree whose roots feed on the wonder of God.

She was carrying their second child when death appeared to him. So she labored alone, again, only this time there was no phone call announcing the birth of one Elena Maria Guzzardo to the proud father. This time there was only one broken heart...and the sound of baby's first cry seemed now very appropriate.

There were three of us now, bonded by the love of my father: Mom, Elena and I. We called my Grandmother's house our home and set about this business of growing up.