Boston Marathon
Cimo is running for the Alzheimer’s Association for her mom who was diagnosed with the disease.
Kaity Cimo is running the Boston Marathon. Kaity Cimo
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Name: Kaity Cimo
Age: 43
City/State: Scituate, Mass.
In honor of my mom, her love language of cooking, and the core memories she’s given my sister and me over the years, I’m running this upcoming Boston Marathon for Alzheimer’s Association.
Below is an essay I wrote about my mom:
“This looks like trash, is this trash sweetie?” asks my mother-in-law, holding up an old yellow plastic pitcher, as we’re clearing out my mom’s kitchen, deciding what we want to keep, donate or at the lowest level, trash.
I glance up from what I’m sorting through. “Yup, trash, no one would want that.”
Almost instantly, though, I start to fill up; the stinging sensation of sadness barreling to the surface. I wave my hand in front of my face as if I can push it back down, keep it from spilling out, wishing my mom’s current state of Alzheimer’s didn’t make moments like this feel so final.
Just 5 minutes before, when we had started opening cabinets and cupboards, I could start to sense that sorting through these items — kitchen items — versus say, old books or even old clothes, was starting to hit me differently.
When pulling out casserole dishes and serving bowls I hadn’t seen in years, I could almost smell the cheesy baked goodness of chicken parm, lasagna, and stuffed shells — so, so many stuffed shells over the years. It was an overwhelming reminder of how my mom showed love best: by serving people.
It’s how she moved through the world — making sure people were cared for and comfortable.
I don’t know if she ever truly loved cooking (I have a like-hate relationship with it myself), but it was the nurturing part of it that she loved. Holidays. If someone was sick, grieving, or celebrating. If she was on grandma duty, or if the day ended in y, she was happy to bring a meal into the equation.
These physical vessels that carried this nurturing, this warmth and sustenance became, without me being fully aware of it, a symbol of that same warmth and care.
In her kitchen now, without her here, I look at these treasures knowing she will never use them again. Even though she’s still with us, she’s not capable of using them again; the disease has taken that from her. But, I know that every inch of her wishes that she could.
The yellow plastic pitcher was filled with memories that came pouring back. Making powdered lemonade, powdered iced tea, probably another type of powdered drink — yes, High C — (it was the 80’s, OK?) with my mom and my sister. A wooden spoon that we would probably fight over to swirl the mix around until it dissolved. The sugary powder floating into my nose and the taste of that wooden spoon we needed to suck dry. Those sweet drinks would occupy its place in the fridge during the summer weeks, to be a cold treat each afternoon.
Today, back in my mom’s old kitchen, I couldn’t find the white lid that went with the pitcher — probably long ago lost. It’s just a cheap plastic pitcher.
Except it’s not a just. It’s everything, isn’t it?
Editor’s note: This entry may have been lightly edited for clarity or grammar.
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