[February 1954]Your nurse could only speak Italian, but after twenty minutes I could imagine your final week, and tears ran down my cheeks....
When I embarked from Italy with my Mother’s body, the whole shoreline of the Golfo di Genova was breaking into fiery flower.
The crazy yellow and azure sea-sleds blasting like jack-hammers across the spumante-bubbling wake of our liner, recalled the clashing colors of my Ford.
Mother traveled first-class in the hold; her Risorgimento black and gold casket was like Napoleon’s at the Invalides....
While the passengers were tanning on the Mediterranean in deck-chairs, our family cemetery in Dunbarton lay under the White Mountains in the sub-zero weather.
The graveyard’s soil was changing to stone— so many of its deaths had been midwinter.
Dour and dark against the blinding snowdrifts, its black brook and fir trunks were as smooth as masts.
A fence of iron spear-hafts black-bordered its mostly Colonial grave-slates.
The only “unhistoric” soul to come here was Father, now buried beneath his recent unweathered pink-veined slice of marble.
Even the Latin of his Lowell motto:
Occasionem cognosce, seemed too businesslike and pushing here, where the burning cold illuminated the hewn inscriptions of Mother’s relatives: twenty or thirty Winslows and Starks.
Frost had given their names a diamond edge....
In the grandiloquent lettering on Mother’s coffin,
Lowell had been misspelled
EL.
The corpse was wrapped like panettone in Italian tinfoil.
