For most of us who knew her, it was impossible to imagine
Lisa sick – before she became sick. To do so would have required a leap of
imagination most of us are incapable of, because she was the epitome of health.
A sheer cliff or a long hike was a temptation she rarely resisted. It was
always this way with her.
My earliest memory of Lisa involved a brief walk when she
was, as the proverb has it, “knee high to a grasshopper.”
My mother had said to me in that “suggestive tone” none of
us safely ignored, “Why don’t you take Lisa for a walk?” And so I did. She was
around 7 at the time, the age of reason.
The walk – from the Pesci homestead on 1 Suffield Street in
Windsor Locks, down North Main Street, up Chestnut Street, through Pesci Park, though
it was not called Pesci Park at that time, down Center Street, where my Uncle
John and Aunt Nellie lived, across North Street and back home, the Grand
Central Station of both the Pesci and Mandirola clans – was a trip that would
last about a half hour, time enough for Rose to complete whatever task she had
that day set herself. It was not washing windows, because I usually did that,
while my twin sister Donna and my elder brother Jim loafed and “took their
ease,” like Walt Whitman did before stretching himself out in a poem. I should
explain that, over the years, there has been a lively debate among the Pesci
clan who exactly was loafing and who was working. The dispute is ongoing.
Because Lisa was so tiny, the span between her outstretched
legs much shorter than my own, I thought: This is gonna take a while. But I was
ready for a leisurely tramp. The night before, I had read portions of Henry
David Thoreau’s Walden Pond, a text first “suggested” to me by Mrs. Smith, a
High School English teacher whose “suggestions” could no more be resisted than
those of my mother or father:
“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately,
to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it
had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”
There were woods in Windsor Locks, and a Basin, and a canal,
back yards to tramp through on your way to some appointed end, though one had
to be very careful whose yard you crossed before arriving at your destination.
To cross some yards was to cross the owners of the properties, and some of them
were very cross indeed.
Lisa and I took the road more traveled. There was a path
leading to the park that my sister and I had crossed daily on our usual route
to St. Mary’s School. When I was as young as Lisa – there is about a 15 year
difference in our ages – that path was a mystery leading to a mystery. Anything
might be at the end of it. Hills are like this; they mask mysteries. Even
today, when I see a bare farmer’s hill kissing the sky, I wonder what giants
lie behind it. And I could see in Lisa’s eyes as we approached this path the
excitement of a mystery lying out of sight – over the hill.
Just before the path was a fierce brook foaming under out
feet, then the path. You had almost to turn a corner to meet the path. Trees
hid everything. But as you turned the corner, the whole high hill jumped out at
you. And this day it surprised us both. Such an autumn I have never seen since.
It was as if some fauvist had thrown his paints on the scarlet and yellow
trees. Well now, wonder is an emotional stop; the world may have been racing by
you like a film unscrolling, but wonder stops it so your soul can take a
picture of it. The hill was golden, the trees were blazing.
“Look, Lisa. Look at the leaves.”
And she: “They die into such pretty colors.”
It’s not often you have an opportunity to take a stroll with
a seven year old poet.
Since then, Lisa many times took the road less traveled,
tramping here and there, climbing sheer
rock cliffs for the purpose, I liked to think, of spying on the giants on the
other side of the hill.
She lived deliberately; she fronted the essential facts of
life – never more than when she was attacked internally.
The hateful thing about Lisa’s sickness was that it rendered
her untouchable. Her immune system was compromised by her treatment. For more
than a year, she could be touched only with words.
Lisa died on Sunday, March 2 at the Dana Farber Cancer
Institute in Boston.
Her family – mother and father, brothers and sister,
sisters-in-law, brother-in-law, a slew of nieces and nephews, aunts and uncle –
had all visited her. In the face of a vicious assault of cancer -- three
separate assaults, in fact, each more aggressive than the one preceding it – we
were all helpless.
My wife Andree pointed to this helplessness when she wrote
Madelyn and Jim, Lisa’s mother and father, “The silence you hear from us (all
us others, who are NOT you, Madelyn and Jimmy) or the vague, unpenetrating,
inadequate words we stumble to utter – Well, it’s all we can do, too. We do it
for Lisa and for you. We love, that’s all, and let our hands fall to our sides –
and pray.”
Every day of her visits, her sister Jennifer read to Lisa
the communications she was receiving, sometimes hourly, from her many
friends and co-workers.
One of her friends sent her a picture, hauntingly beautiful,
of fresh snow that had fallen on an empty street in New York, guarded by two soldierly
rows of trees. In that white expanse, one could almost hear the murmuring of
angels, who speak to us when we are helpless, our arms dropped uselessly by our
sides.
The picture was captioned, “The snow is waiting for you.”
Lisa heard all the hopes and encouragements of her friends
and family. She felt the warmth of all. She attended to the words of her
friends.
She saw the picture of the snow that was waiting for her.
Her breath filled the plastic oxygen mask she defiantly removed. She smiled.
And the rest of us prayed.
Ah yes, but God has so arranged the universe that all bright
memories are prayers. And every word directed to you my dear Lisa, who fronted
life bravely and who, though suffering much and long, still smiled at autumn leaves, is a prayer
that travels two ways – first to you from those who love you, your family and so
many good friends, and then through your suffering to One who paints the leaves
in brilliant colors.
Comments
Steven & Constance Anderson
Diane Ritchie