Sofia's Fall

      The rock hits Sofia, a crushing red explosion of pain, and she remembers everything at once. Feels it, too - her foot inside her mother's shoe as the poor woman stumbles and falls, hitting her head on the cobblestones. Years ago - but it's happening right now, at Burke Avenue and White Plains Road, across from De Lucca's Meats. July so hot you could roast a marshmallow on it, so maybe the heat's made her mother dizzy. Or maybe a paving-block was loose on the road and she's tripped.

      Old now, Sofia's gone and done the same thing. No - not true. Life's thrown a rock at her, hurling it across time. She's not at all like her mother lying on that Bronx street, the crowd moving in on her as if she were a trolley running late. Did she get hit? asks a cop. No, Sofia wants to say. She always lies in the street like that. And now I got hit, too. I fell and hit my head on the edge of the bathtub. Only at this very moment she's ripping apart, exploding like some galaxy in space. Closing her eyes, she rushes into blackness.

      Cousin Chris is taking me to lunch today. Nine in the morning when she got out of bed. Taking her time, she donned her bath robe and slippers, then crossed herself, thanking God for the grace of another day. A summer day, but she's decided to wear her linen jacket and slacks since the restaurant's going to be chilly. She eased herself up from the bed and made her way to the bureau.

      Caro Stefano - his photo was beside the jewellery box. Her beloved, gone a year now. She lifted the lid and examined various brooches, selecting the dark amber one in an ornate silver setting. Cheered by its richness, she thought about her two daughters, Petra and Julie. She hoped they'd enjoy her beautiful things when she's gone. Yesterday her cousin Chris flew in from Paris and came by Petra's music store. He gave her daughter something to pass on to her, just in case the two of them didn't connect. A flat packet that she'd left unopened on the bureau.

      So open it. What are you waiting for?

       After my shower, I'll open it.

       Cara mia, open it. She shivered. That wasn't Christopher's voice. Warm but commanding, a voice she hasn't heard in decades - not since Uncle Paul vanished. She can feel his hands on her shoulder, his lips close to her ear.

       She opened the package and read the letter.