Adriana Trigiani - Brava, Valentine

My sisters and their husbands anchor the second row, having saved seats for Gabriel and me on the end. They draped my mother’s black pashmina scarf over the chairs to reserve them.

Alfred stands in the back in a proper suit. He nods to me as Gabriel and I take our seats. Bret waves to us from the corner.

The makeshift altar is simple and beautiful. A statue of Buddha, carved out of ruby marble, rests on a pedestal directly in front of the seats. Three small candles are lit at the base.

On a small table next to the icon is a framed photograph of June. It’s black and white in a black lacquer frame. She is dancing, jumping high through the air. June is also nude . My father stares into the eyeballs of the Buddha to avoid looking at young, naked June.

“From my collection,” Irv whispers, tapping me on the shoulder and pointing to the photograph.

“ Bellissima ,” I say to him.

The photograph is pure June, caught in the vigor of youth. Her body was a work of art; her thigh muscles, down through the extension of her long and graceful calves, appear chiseled in granite. Her slim ankles and pointed toes complement the bold arc of her hand, which practically touches her toes as she does a flying backbend in midair. Her hair flies behind her like a silk cape.

A Catholic priest, wearing black slacks and a Roman collar under a sweater, enters, carrying a small leather book. I recognize him from the express Mass at the chapel at Saint Vincent’s Hospital. He is followed by a bald Buddhist monk in red robes.

My father turns and looks at me, raising both eyebrows with an expression that says, This oughta be rich .

“Good afternoon, friends,” the priest begins. “I’m Father Bob Bond, and this is my friend, Buddhist monk Bing Lao.” The monk bows deeply from the waist. “We both knew June, and we thought we’d talk a bit about her, and then you, her loved ones, can get up and speak if you wish.”

“Where’s the body?” I hear my father ask my mother. She puts her finger to her lips so he won’t ask any further questions. The Church of Unorthodox/Integral Yoga is not my father’s thing. When it comes to death, my father needs familiar rituals he can count on to get him through. This isn’t it.

The door to the yoga studio pushes open. Pamela, in a dress coat and matching hat, looks around for our familiar faces. My sisters and I wave to her. We have turned into the sweetest, most solicitous sisters-in-law in history since Alfred and Pamela hit the rocks. We could not be more supportive. We give her space and free babysitting services whenever she needs them. When Pamela’s eyes meet Alfred’s, she weaves her way through the crowd to the back of the room to stand with him.

My father takes my mother’s hand and squeezes it.

Father Bond begins, “June was born and baptized Roman Catholic. She was born in Brooklyn, attended what used to be called Saint Joseph’s Academy on Long Island. She went to college for two years at Marymount, when she was chosen to tour internationally with the Paul Taylor Dance Company. June went all over the world-Ireland, Poland, Germany, Italy.

“June cherished her years as a professional dancer. She became a devoted yoga practitioner, and often taught class here at Integral.”

“Did you know that?” Gabriel whispers.

“I had no idea she taught classes.”

“June attended Mass at the Dorothy Day Center in the East Village.”

“I didn’t know that either,” I whisper to Gabriel.

“I thought she was a collapsed Catholic. Like me,” he whispers back.

“June would say, ‘Father, remember to pray for me, because I pray for you.’ This was the essence of this good woman, now in God’s hands. She looked out for those she cared about, and she walked in the world with a big heart. She will be missed.”

The priest steps back as the monk steps forward. “June expressed herself through the physical, in a way that most of us cannot.”

“She sure is expressing herself in that picture,” my father whispers to my mother.

The monk continues, “June danced, and when she did, she became a work of art. She shared her talents, and understood the core of Buddhism, which is renewal and, ultimately, renaissance. She understood that one must change in order to grow. That one must move through life, not stand still, but move with it…”

“I just wish she had done it in a leotard,” my father mumbles.

“June believed that about happiness, and also pain. Her death reminds us that if we stay present, we can die on an ordinary morning, without fanfare or drama-but in a state of peace and contentment. I take this lesson from June’s life-and her death: Let go and let be.”

We sit in silence for a moment. The priest then says, “We offer the floor to anyone who would like to speak.”

My mother clears her throat, stands, moves before the altar, and stands between the priest and the monk. She goes into her purse and pulls out her eulogy.

Mom unfolds the paper. I can see she printed it out in extra large letters so she wouldn’t have to wear her reading glasses in front of strangers.

“Thank you all for coming to June Lawton’s memorial service. My name is Mike Angelini Roncalli. Though I’ve never met most of you, I’m sure you all loved June as I did, as my family did.” Mom inhales deeply, so as not to cry. “I was young when I met June…”

“She was thirty-six,” Tess whispers and rolls her eyes.

“I already had a family and responsibilities. June was a Greenwich Village bohemian-you don’t see too many of those around anymore-and she was also a best friend to my mother, who is here today.

“Nearly thirty years ago, June was looking to do a job that was creative but challenging. She became the best pattern cutter my parents ever had at the Angelini Shoe Company. But she was so much more to us. She was a confidante and a friend. One of us, even though she was a glorious Irish redhead with eyes as blue as the waves of the North Sea on a summer day.

“I have many fond memories of our dear June, but I’d like to leave you with this little story. I was going through some problems in my life, and June knew it. She took me out for a long walk, and in that very honest way she had, she told me I was full of baloney, and I needed to buck up and stop being a ninny.”

The underdressed mourners nod in approval.

“June didn’t suffer fools. And while…” My mother goes off script. She folds her speech in half and puts her hands behind her back.

Jaclyn and Tess lean toward me. This could go south quickly.

“And while I can be a fool, I thank God June could spot one. She set me straight that day. And I think that’s the most loving thing a good friend can do, to be honest when you need it, and even when you fail, she stands by you.”

Mom looks up to heaven.

“Thank you, June.” Mom takes a step to go back to her seat.

Irv Raible stands and hits a portable CD player. Miles Davis plays Ravel as we sit and listen. When the music concludes, the priest says, “Thank you for coming and honoring our friend today. I know she would be grateful.”

My mother pops up and announces, “Oh, and everyone, please come to 166 Perry Street after the service for lunch. Father…” The priest nods. “And Mr. Monk Lao…” The Buddhist priest nods that he will attend. Then Mom looks out over the mourners. “There’ll be plenty of food”-she looks around-“tabbouleh for you veggie Buddhist people…”

“Your mother always knows the exact right thing to say,” Gabriel says softly.

The Buddhist monk smiles at my mother, and bows deeply to her from the waist.

“Thank you,” he says.

And then, my mother, the nice Catholic girl from Perry Street, bows to the Buddhist monk on the day we say good-bye to our June.