Dear Rose

I think of her every Sunday,
whispering prayers in Italian.
She could silence ambulance sirens
with struffoli on Christmas.

She was crying when I met her,
smiling and shaking her head, saying
bella, bella, bella.

Music will not save us from sickness,
but it will soothe our souls.
She would hum the same song while she cooked,
spaghetti serenades between pasta water steam
filling a tiny urban apartment.

She had white hair when I knew her.
Glittering eyes, paper-skin hands danced
when she spoke.

You are a Rose,
bella, bella, bella,
you are so beautiful.