LORRAINE VINCENT-CACIOPPO (May 12, 1947 - February 15, 2026)

You should be home now sans machinery. The truth is I’m never prepared. Not even with hereditary vexation can I brace this cold tonnage. You were briefly nauseous before you left that morning, doubled over the sink where we could rub your back until the wave crested. You spared me from the mortality rates of blood poisoning when I was seven, but you couldn’t hide your terror the following year when I got lost at the beach for two hours after my brother and his friend ditched me for a laugh. Making you cry like that was my introduction to self-hatred, but also made me understand how much you loved me. I’m now the age you were then, or at least pretty close. I’m now crying as hard as you were then, or at least pretty close. If not as close,  then at least for way longer… like maybe thirty-five more years. 

The joys you brought into my life are innumerable, your affection for us as infinite as ours for you. 

I will never forget how lucky I am that you are my mother. You could’ve lived into your 100s, with us spending every day together, and it still would feel like there was more time to be had. 

The things I’ll miss about having you here, big and little, hit hard all the same. 

You will continue to be the healing light in every warm memory I have. 

Love you forever, Mom.