When I was very, very little, I have a memory of being very, very sick and being held by my mom, who is (by all definitions) the best mom in the entire world.
She didn’t panic when you were hurt. She flew into calm, focused action. The type of mom who attacked you with kisses and made you feel like the center of her universe, even as one of four sisters. She listened to every word and gave advice that always felt enormously right and needed.
This particular memory stands out because I’m a twin, and having her to myself was sometimes rare. I guess I was old enough to remember it in flashes: a navy, off-white pinstriped mug of coffee, Cinderella playing on the quintessentially nineties television set, Ilene Wood’s voice crooning “Oh, Sing Sweet Nightingale,” the amber light from the living room lamp, the feeling of the softest sofa under my legs. My mom, sounding like Cinderella in my ear, saying: “That’s you. That’s how magical you are.”
Maybe I don’t remember it at all. It’s possible I only remember her telling me about it, because she carries the memory with her, too.
The two of us went to Italy together in 2015. We arrived at the most beautiful, hazily lit flat tucked off a back road near Campo de’ Fiori in Rome.
I can still see myself opening the shutters to a courtyard where greenery spilled over stone walls. The sound of Roman birds (more beautiful than ours, in my opinion), a musical voice on their balcony, and distant church bells all layered together. We’d walk to the morning market almost every day, buy ingredients, and cook together in the tiny kitchen.
One rainy day, we wandered into the indoor Testaccio market. I bought pale blue suede flats; she bought boots. I remember scarves with teddy bears on them. We drank espresso with damp, frizzy hair clinging to our cheeks. There was a nearby cinema, and unsure where to go next, we walked in, and what was playing?
The live-action Cinderella, with Lily James, Cate Blanchett, and Helena Bonham Carter.
Cenerentola.
Watching an English film dubbed in Italian (with, unsurprisingly, no English subtitles) was unforgettable and oddly beautiful. We also very nearly had the place to ourselves. We bought a bag of fresco, fragrante, gustoso popcorn (Pop Boum!) and dried off successfully.
I wasn’t sick and she wasn’t holding me. But it was just as significant as that fever-memory, with Cinderella singing from a television set in our living room. In that moment, in that theatre, my mom might was for sure holding me.
I hope I was holding her, too.
(Daily Writing 040)
Thoughts?