There is a strange silence now. For many years – no matter how hectic things
would get – the ritual of lunch with the family – Franca, Sara, Donato –
every Sunday at my mother’s house, was the most important thing on our calendar.
It was as important to us as it was to her. To tell the stories of the week, hear how the family was doing, to talk about the past, and the future.
No one remembers like a mother. No one listens like a mother.
This Sunday, and all the rest of my Sundays are dedicated to mine. Mina.