I’ll never forget her first home visit from rehab. It was in July, and she finally got clearance to come home for what they called a “12-Hour,” not a “24-Hour,” overnight, but a “12-Hour,” and not alone yet either, but with an escort, what they called a “strength:” someone who was further along in the program than she was.

As we drove up the hill to our house I saw that Maria’s tears began to fall slowly down her face, and when she walked into the kitchen she really cried. She hadn’t been home in nine months. I grabbed her as I began to cry and said, “Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” We just held each other and cried in the kitchen. Then I asked her if she felt she was ready to come home. Her quick-witted response: “I never needed to go away!”

Then the flurry of activity; the snowstorm in July…the phone ringing, Maria calling people, hearing her say, “Yeah, it’s really me, I’m home!” And everyone coming…the doorbell, my cell phone…her bags and suitcases of winter wear all over…all the things she no longer needed up there on “the mountain,” as they called it…making her favorite food…the family coming in with hope, then disappointment: “Where’s Maria?” “You just missed her. She went shopping with Frankie.” Then waiting for her to come back, her younger cousins waiting outside for her to return, to jump on her as they always did…as they did on her last Christmas Eve. They couldn’t get enough of her. We all couldn’t get enough of her. urricane Maria…the massive whirlwind of her presence in the house…in the town…for twelve whole hours.

In a split second there were only twenty minutes left and she was packing up whatever she just bought at the mall. I told her once before: “I don’t know, Maria, all we ever seem to do is say goodbye.” But it was all so noisy for any of us to hear anything…especially the clock…neither of us knew just how clamorous that clock really was…that clock that went on ticking and ticking…taking her away from me.