Rosa

October 9, 2019

“Bare as crucifixes, the ships at rest seemed nothing like the unfurled fairy-swans that skimmed the oceans.  Is there always, under the glory of white wings and graceful speed, the scaffolding of a cross?   If you meet a woman…who sails her life with strength and grace and assurance, talk to her!  And what you will find is that there has been a suffering, that at some time she has left herself for hanging dead.”

Sena Jeter Nalund –  Ahab’s Wife

I couldn’t get Rosa out of my mind, weeks after meeting her at the San Gennaro Italian Street Festival. At 101, she had given me the barest of details about her life and they, in themselves, were extraordinary. I wanted to know more about this fascinating woman.

She had told me of the senior living facility where she lived, only three miles from my house, so I called to confirm that she was a resident and bolstered my courage to seek her out.

Armed with a peachy orange rose in a sleek glass block with matching ribbon, I knocked on her apartment door.

The woman who answered was her visiting niece. She seemed puzzled by this strange woman at her aunt’s door.

Rosa too, sitting at her table, tried to place where she had seen me before. When I refreshed her memory she laughed and held out her arms. We hugged and laughed some more, so thrilled to see each other once again.

Her niece said her good-byes and we began our hellos.

With no prompting she began to fill in the blanks of her story. We were simply two women becoming new friends. The years between us dissolved; we were women first, once wives, then mothers and grandmothers.

Rosa was born in 1918 and grew up on Beacon Hill in Seattle. Her dad was a Merchant Marine and rarely home.

“He came home just long enough to get Mama pregnant.”

She quickly brushed over her first two marriages with a flutter of her hands, anxious to get to her favorite part.

First Husband died in a plane crash in Alaska; nothing more, no details.

Second Husband drown in Oregon in the river that ran on their property.

And, then she pulled a 1936 high school yearbook across the table and opened the yellowing pages to the place it always opened to. There next to each other were small photos of a cute young Rosa and a handsome young boy named Tony. Their last names were so close in the alphabet that they were always next to each other.

Her eyes sparkled as we gazed at those fresh young faces. She said of Tony,

“He was one of the nice boys. You knew who the nice boys were by their friends, if they were nice boys, too.”

They had been friends only in those days and after graduation, went their separate ways. Tony went into the military and her life traveled a different path.

For 48 years their lives meandered through different landscapes until she came back from Oregon to Seattle to settle her mother’s estate.

Visiting her daughter, she said to her, “Mom, there is this nice widower down the street, says he went to the same high school as you. You should meet him.” Rosa had been through a lot and felt her days for love had passed, but she reluctantly agreed.

Rosa and Tony finally put the pieces together, realizing they were the two young kids in the yearbook. 

They met for lunch; she wore a beige pleated skirt and navy jacket.

“He was such a gentleman. Being near him made my knees weak and my palms sweat.”

She noticed he had grown two inches taller after high school. He liked that she didn’t dye her hair, but had allowed it to grow into silvery white.

For the next three months they saw each other daily or spoke on the phone. One day he said to her, “Why don’t we just get married.” 

“Why not.”

Rosa became a bride again at 63.

Remembering their wedding, she giggled,

“Tony and I never danced. We danced at our wedding and he had two left feet, oh my. But, I didn’t care, I loved him so!”

He was the love of her life. He was so kind and they got along so well; living together came easily. They traveled and both loved to cook.

“I am Spanish and Tony was Italian so we liked a lot of garlic and olive oil.”

They loved each other for twenty-nine and a half years…

”not nearly long enough.”

He passed away in 2010 after a heart attack.

At 92, Rosa was living alone in their house, trying to care for it on her own. One day while working in the yard she slipped and tumbled down a slope, loosing her glasses along the way.

Lying at the bottom of a ravine, uninjured but flat on her back, she looked up at the sky and said,

“Ok, God, I hear you. It’s time to sell the house.”

She crawled back up the slope and promptly moved into the senior living facility.

She has been there six years now and began to show me around her little world. Pictures and books fill her space. Their wedding picture, pictures of their travels, and a framed photo of Tony sits on her dresser next to her bed. She loves to read and a stack of new books waits for her on the dining table.

She gave me a tour, showing me a small movie theater, the dining room where she shares her meals with her neighbors, and a library where she can help herself to all the books she can carry. We went up to the top floor, to a rooftop patio where summer meals and activities take place. 

Standing there together at the railing, we looked out over the Seattle skyline, bright fall colors checkered the evergreens, a patchwork quilt against the gray autumn day.

When it was time for me to go we hugged again, but this time we knew it was not our last. Plans were made to visit again, to go out for tea, and for her to visit me at my home.

Life for Rosa seems timeless. Being 101 is just a number and does not define who she is. There is no talk of aches and pains, no tears or regrets. Just joy for having been the woman Tony loved.

PS. Yes, my dance partner and Rosa’s husband were both named Tony.