During my sophomore year in high school, I stayed with my nono (“grandfather” in Italian), Joe Bottea (a widower), at night, as he had recently fallen, and my mother wanted someone to be with him. So, in the mornings, I would prepare for school and walk to my parents’ home two blocks away.

On that fateful Friday morning, as I opened the door to my family’s home and stepped into the kitchen, an eerie feeling came over me. There was my father standing in the dining room with his worried, reddened eyes transfixed on me. Immediately, I inquired where mom was and what was wrong. His response was quick, sudden, and directly to the point: “Narissa is dead. She was killed in an automobile accident last night.” Later, we were informed that the driver of the other vehicle, who caused the accident, was drunk and also killed.

I stood there in disbelief — stunned, mesmerized, attempting to process it all. No tears came. Dad sat me down and told me about the phone call from the Marquette police in the middle of the night, and how my mother screamed and cried.

This all ensued on Friday, October 27; but on the next day, Saturday morning, something changed. That morning is vividly remembered. I walked to the Caspian Post Office (at that time a little over a block away from our Pop Shop), and opened our post office box, Box #96, and noticed that it contained a letter. The letter was addressed to my parents, and the penmanship on the letter was undeniably of my sister, Narissa. I stood there puzzled, trying to piece it all together and realized that the letter had been sent on the Thursday morning of the day she was killed.

Quickly, I returned home to my parents and explained exactly what had taken place. My mother’s face was of extreme sorrow, and Dad’s eyes were welded with tears. With trembling fingers, my mother opened the envelope and began in a shaking voice to read aloud my sister’s final words to us.

Narissa spoke of her anticipation and excitement of the new child she was carrying, and also of her little daughter Barbie (two years old) and the activities she was to be involved with on that day. She also mentioned that she was preparing a meal for her husband (Tom Clark) before he returned home from work. Included in the letter was her love not only for her own family, but for all of us as well. My mother stopped several times while she was reading Narissa’s letter, as her sobbing was seemingly relentless. The letter concluded with her saying goodbye to all of us and a reminder for me to behave (as I would sometimes enter into shenanigans without much prodding).

Even though it has been over fifty years, as I write this article, it rekindles emotions that for so long have lain somewhat dormant. Here still is the sadness of dreams that would never be fulfilled or experienced.

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