An Age of Angels: In Memory of Sue Fiore (1933-2003)

Sometimes I wish I was less at ease being alone. I imagine I learned to seek refuge within myself ever since I was little because I found the world outside myself too unpredictable, unstable, and changeable. It frightened and confused me.

I mention this because I would have liked to spend even more time with my Aunt Sue, who died from cancer in 2003. Oh, I saw her fairly often on my weekend visits with my Dad (who was divorced from my Mom). That was one thing among many that I am grateful that my Dad did for me. He made certain his son knew the Balbis — his side of the family. Because of that, I stayed in touch with Aunt Sue and her children more than most people in my life.

Aunt Sue was my Dad’s sister. He had lots of sisters and brothers. About a dozen. I loved them all. But I think I knew my Aunt Sue the best. Or maybe it is more accurate to say that she knew me the best.

When she died, I felt compelled to write a poem for and about her.

I am a compulsive reviser. Whether it’s an essay, story, or poem, I feel an almost sacred obligation to the subject, my feelings, my thoughts, and the ideas that seem to just appear from the ether and which I struggle to grasp and put down in words. At times, it feels as futile as trying to grab a handful of fog, mist, or smoke. But every writer has to try to turn “them to shapes” and give “to airy nothing a local habitation and a name.” And so, there are always so very many drafts.

When I am done, I am almost afraid to reread it for fear that I will tinker with it one more time. I am never quite happy with my work but when I feel satisfied that I made a good effort and nothing substantially better will result from continuing to hold paper and pen in now numb fingers, I put it down with a clear conscience.

After finishing the poem, I fancifully wished I could send it to Aunt Sue’s new address in the afterlife but I did not have a proper mailing address nor any idea what postage was needed.

And while, yes, I wrote this poem — like everything I write — for myself, I knew I had to share it. So, I printed it on parchment paper, framed it, and gave it to my Uncle Primo, her husband, with extra copies for the rest of the family. Along with my poem, I also gave him a framed copy of what I hoped was a perfect quote from The Bible’s “Proverbs 31:10-31,” which seemed to describe Aunt Sue to a tee.

My Uncle Primo always thanked me for those framed words whenever he saw me after Aunt Sue’s death. Not because they are masterpieces or the greatest gifts he ever received, but because they were given from the depths of my heart in honor of the woman who was the love of his life. Neither of us ever spoke those exact words or expressed that sentiment to each other. We didn’t have to. He was as special in his way as Aunt Sue was in hers. And you will find words in honor of him elsewhere in these pages.

My Uncle Primo passed away on August 15, 2022. While I will miss him for the rest of my life, I am happy that he will now finally be reunited with his kind, sweet Sue.

And though it entails thoughts of a triple loss, I must bring to mind my cousin, their daughter, Laura Ostermann, née Fiore. She was stunningly beautiful inside and out. Truly her mother’s daughter. She died in 1993 at the age of only 31 years old. There is some consolation in knowing they are all together again, patiently awaiting our eventual arrival.