Bora Bora Bora

18: Pink bench

Lorna's POV

20 years earlier

I was standing in a bench in the kitchen, peeking over my mother's shoulder. She was standing with her back towards me, kneading. I used to carry that pink bench all around the house, it was like an extension of my own body, and I rarely used it to actually sit on.  At 10, I was bordering the end of that age where everything about life (and almost everything your parents do) is utterly fascinating. I still often found myself standing on my bench to get a better view of my tiny world, that little house in that Italian-American neighborhood in Manhattan.

My mother looked up from the ball of dough that would soon become lasagna and looked over at me.

"You'll break your testa one day if you keep standing on that thing,Lorna."

"But mama, I'm short. I need it. Kids are shorter than grown ups and everything is in grown up size. Like the kitchen counter."

"Francesca is a kid too and I don't see her standing on anything."

"That's because Frannie is like, a giraffe. Giraffe kids are already tall. Did you know giraffes can decapitate a lion with a kick? Just one kick, that's how strong they are. I saw it on the
TV. I bet kid giraffes can do that too, if it's a really small lion. That's why I'm very careful not to make Frannie mad when her feet are near my head-"

"Alright, signorita, why don't you stop talking nonsense and come help your mama. We have to get these lasagnas ready for your papa's birthday dinner tonight."

"Yesss!"

I jumped off my standing  bench, picked it up and placed it beside my mother. She was a hot-headed, loud Italian woman, and it wasn't often that she gave us the chance to mess up her cooking. I grabbed her arm for support as I climbed back on my bench.

She dropped a handful of flour over my hands, and the way it felt between my fingers made me giggle.

"Here, help me out with this," she handed me a rolling pin and a small portion of the dough. It was heavy and I did the best I could with my clumsy childlike hands,  sneaking glances at my mother with the corner of my eye, searching for approval.

"No no no, that's not the way to do it," she scolded. "Here, look at me,"

I leaned over her shoulder to watch her expert hands at work. Her flowered red dress smelled like her.
A kid never forgets the smell of their mother's perfume. It will always be there, the first name in the list of people whose perfume will always make you think of home, for good or for bad. During my life, I would only add one more woman's name to that list.

"See? Now you try."

I nodded and imitated her with a concentrated look on my face. My mom laughed and playfully smacked my head.

"Go stir the tomato sauce," she said.

I moved my bench over the stove. We both knew already that she wouldn't make a chef out of me.  But I enjoyed simply  being there. Even though I could never really cook, I always liked kitchens. I liked the way they always seemed warmer than the rest of the house, I liked the sound of water boiling and pans sizzling. Anywhere where food was prepared, I suffered a little bit less.

"Mama, can I wear my pink dress tonight?"

"You mean you sister's pink dress?"
"WELL, okaaay. My sister's pink dress. Frannie said I could borrow it and it's too small for her anyway, and it's a special occasion dress, and tonight is a very special ocassion, don't you think mami?"

"Yes, Lorna, you can wear the pink dress."

I smiled and continued to stirr happily, humming a nameless song.

"Mami, how old is papa today?" I asked.

"He's 38."

"And how old was he when he meet you?"

"We were both 13."

"So you've known papa for..." I let go of the wooden spoon to count on my fingers. "...24 years!"

"25, Lorna."

"Oh, yeah. But you must love someone  a lot to put up with them for 25 years."

"Lorna!"

"What?! You must!"

She peeked over my shoulder at the tomato sauce.

"I think that's ready. Good job, signorita."

I smiled widely and threw my arms around her neck.

"Thanks for letting me help you, mama!"
I planted a kiss on her cheek.

Her expression softened, and she kissed my cheek back.

"Alright now. You go play."

I jumped off my bench and took it with me as I ran merrily to my room. 

I didn't know that, as a teenager I would look back on that moment several times, trying to feel like there was a moment, if only an instant, in which my mother and I were close. A moment, if only an instant, in which the people who were supposed to love me, actually did.

None of us knew that these would be one of my father's last birthdays. He died when I was 12. Car accident. They say it was instant, that he barely felt any pain. But how cruel it is, to use the word "instant" when talking about death. The end of a life is always sudden, it's always instant...you always die in the middle of life, no matter how old you are. Death is instant, and grief...grief is anything but.

My mother never recovered from my dad's passing. I believe it was sadness what made her sick. The doctors called it multiple sclerosis, but I was still enough of a kid to know that that was just a more scientific name for the same old sadness. It was grief that was slowly killing her, it was grief that was hiding behind the diseases' symptoms. And on some level, she allowed it, maybe because life had lost a lot of its meaning, and she could never find it again. Not even in me and my sister.

I didn't know back then that I was desperately searching for a meaning too. And I definitely didn't know that it would be a lot more than 3 years since I found it, and that it would be a her, and that two weeks after our wedding I would be carrying around a dirty prison uniform, like I used to carry that bench, because it still smelled like her.