I know you’re still here but I’ve already lost you—
you are not the same person who handed out hugs
as if your arms couldn’t function without being around us;
you argue now like an obstinate three-year-old
and spout words that sting till tomorrow’s sunrise,
though by then you’ve already forgotten them.

I miss those days when I’d curl crying in my bed
swallowing the salty remarks my mother had thrown at me
and being able to wipe away the tears only
because I thought of you, kisses bursting from your lips,
taking us to the beach, asking us what we wanted
for every meal the week before we arrived,
sharing your own tears on my cheeks when we left.

Every summer you took us shopping at the best bargain stores
and outfitted us in the newest styles for the school year
and taught us how to pick parsley and basil from the herb garden
and how to sauté garlic, onions, and carrots for the marinara
and how to boil steamers for just a few minutes,
then dip the clams in butter and let them slide down
our throats, their taste lingering of the sea you’ve always loved.

We exchanged letters for years, your scrawling cursive writing
filled with your beliefs about my schooling,
my boyfriends, and your Catholic upbringing,
touching my heart with your love just as much as
the gifts and cards you sent for my birthdays
all the way into my adult years.

I know you’re still here, but I’ve already lost you
and when I think about the phone calls I forget to make
or the confusion in your voice when we speak,
I recall my childhood, your ever-affectionate presence
the sweet happiness that I forever longed for,
and though I feel old and alone and sometimes lost along with you,
I still carry your Italian black hair on my head,
your sauce recipe in my memory,
and the remnants of your soul within my soul.