I walked into the cubicle. My wife, Rita, sat next to the gurney, on an orange plastic chair while clasping Clarissa's tiny hand like a warm woolen glove. Our baby was six months old and born with a hole in her heart. Since her birth, Clarissa had three heart surgeries. Her recent operation caused complications that damaged the pulmonary artery, making it difficult for our child to breathe.

Rita turned her head when she heard my footsteps as I entered the room. She looked at me with her bleary green eyes while large crystal tears streamed down her pallid cheeks. She started to speak, but her voice began cracking.

"It's okay, darling," I said, walking behind her. I gently tapped her shoulders as I bowed my head and softly gave her a peck on her cheek.

Rita didn't have to say anything because I heard those words many times before, Clarissa's temperature spiked. Her blood pressure had elevated. She had abnormal heartbeats. It sounded like an old record that played on and on. For once, I just wanted to hear that I could take my baby home, play peek-a-boo with her, read her fairy tales, and sing to her. I just wanted someone to tell me Clarissa will be well.

I looked at my daughter. She wore a pink gown that draped her little body from her scrawny neck to her tiny toes. A clear plastic mask covered her face with a blue coil plastic hose projecting from a circular outlet of the mask over her nose and connected to a valve attached to the wall above the bed. Every time Clarissa's chest would rise, a hissing sound came from the valve, and a white cloud of vapor spurted over her mask.

I looked at the monitor, adjacent to the bed, and saw a small white ball move from one end of the screen to the other over a thin blue line. When a beep sounded, it told everyone that Clarissa was breathing normally. With all the wires and tubes attached to her, she looked like a robot from Star Wars.

Rita and I each gave a heavy sigh when the doctor walked into the room. The butterflies started swarming in my stomach.

He looked somber. Dr. Greenberg was a tall, lanky pediatric surgeon with wavy dark hair who wore green scrubs.

"I need your permission to take Clarissa to surgery to correct the defect in her pulmonary artery, which is decreasing the blood flow to the lung," he spoke compassionately.

Rita and I nodded, hoping this will be the last operation that Clarissa would ever need.

Given our consent, my wife and I watched the team of nurses and technicians come into the room. They hooked our daughter to portable oxygen tanks. I put my arm around Rita's shoulders when she stood up. She buried her head in my chest. I held her in my arms, listening to her soft whimpering as I watched the men and women take our Clarissa away.

I wanted to tell my wife that everything will be okay, but the lump in my throat prevented me from speaking. I really didn't know what Clarissa's outcome would be, but always was hoping for good news. Her health, lately, played like a lousy crap game, and we kept rolling snake eyes.

A nurse walked up to us. She smiled.

"Would you two like to wait in our visitor's lounge? It's down the hall." She pointed with her index finger. "There's some coffee and cookies."

"How long is the surgery?" I asked. I could feel the tingling in my nerves like someone was poking needles into me.

"An hour or so. I'll inform Dr. Greenberg where you are," she responded softly.

We accepted her invitation and started our journey toward the lounge.

As we passed the elevator, the door slid open and out stepped, my mother, Rosa. She carried a large plastic bag with Walmart's logo.

"I made you some sandwiches." She pulled from the bag, two Ziploc bags containing meatball sandwiches.

Rita and I shook our heads, placing our hands over our churning stomachs as a protest to Mother that our minds centered on Clarissa and not meatballs.

According to Rosa, in our family, we had the 'lasagna for all occasions' I remember when I was a teenager and lost my first job. I was sick over it, but mom tried settling my tragedy by making lasagna while I just wanted my job back.

She finally stopped peddling the food after Rita gave my mom and me the cold eyes.

Once Rosa stopped engaging in meatballs and cookies, she finally asked about her granddaughter. I explained the situation but caused another rift when she remarked that Clarissa doesn't eat enough. Rita looked with evil eyes, not at Rosa but me. Rita made the gesture for me to 'fix it' or sleep on the couch. I told mom in a gentle way that Rita feeds Clarissa as much as the baby tolerates. My mother snickered and remained quiet. Rita smiled, approval of my involvement, which made my stomach settle, knowing I 'fixed it,' this time.

A few hours passed when Dr. Greenberg walked into the room. His stoic expression implied that my life was about to change.

"I'm sorry, we did all we could," he said.

Those words pierced my heart. I heard Rita scream, a scream that brought several nurses and aids into the room.

I wanted to run to Rita, wrap my arms around her, and lay her head upon my shoulder. I tried to tell her that we will wake up from this bad nightmare. I wanted to say to her that Clarissa will be in our arms, we will take her home, and never come here again.

My knees became weak. I felt as though someone had just jabbed me in the stomach with their fist. I couldn't move at that moment. It was like my legs were buried in cement.

Please, my love, don't cry. The doctor is wrong. This is a bad dream. Clarissa is sleeping. Don't cry.

Chills coiled my spine. Every muscle felt as though they were locked in a vise. I could hardly breathe. Perhaps, I misunderstood the doctor. Clarissa will soon come home. Rita will dress our little girl. The blue dress I purchased for her a few days ago. We will go and play, and life will be okay.

Months passed since the funeral. We buried Clarissa in a blue dress, and she laid to rest in a white coffin.

Family and friends came to pay their respects. Many of those people I didn't even recognize. I seemed to be oblivious to the whole scene. For those first few days of mourning, I felt isolated from everyone as though I stood on a raft in the middle of the ocean of a horrendous storm, gone forever. I had but one reprieve and slowly let my mind slip away.

Clarissa and I were at the park. She was two-years-old, dressed in pink pants and a white tee shirt with yellow daisies. My little girl giggled, sliding down the slide and fell into my arms.
"Again, Daddy, again," she said with a smile that warmed my heart.

The dream vanished as someone shook my hand, offering their condolences, hoping to ease the pain, but the agony would never stop like a wound that would never heal.

The days drifted away. Every night Rita and I came home from our respective jobs. Rita worked at a library, and I was a carpenter.

Our apartment became silent like a mortuary. Rosa cooked meals for us. Sometimes, the food went untouched. I could barely keep down a grilled cheese sandwich, let alone a dish of sausage and spaghetti smothered in red sauce.

During the evenings, Rita stayed in the bedroom, reading a book while I sat in the living room, watching a baseball game or a rerun of Law and Order.
There were nights that I just stared at a blank screen, wishing I could sing Rock-a-Bye-Baby to Clarissa.

I often walked into my baby's bedroom. The crib had a clean blue sheet with a round yellow rattle lying on a white blanket. A furry brown stuffed dog with a black button nose sat on top of a little pink pillow. Clarissa would widen her blue eyes and laugh every time she saw the animal.

Tears rolled down my cheeks, observing her bedroom walls of white wallpaper with painted balloons, Ferris wheels, and merry-go-rounds. When I held Clarissa in my arms, I showed her these colorful objects. I told her that one day we would travel to the amusement parks, go on rides, eat cotton candy, and laugh to our heart's content.

Rita and I often argued about trivial matters that hid our anguished minds from the reality of never holding Clarissa.

One evening like most, tempers flared.

"Where's the milk? I want it for my coffee." Rita complained, her eyes skimming the shelves of the refrigerator.

"I had it with my cereal this morning," I replied, ignoring the hostility in her voice, but I could feel my blood rising.

"And, you couldn't buy a gallon on your way home from work."

"I forgot." The tsunami was about to start. "There's some powdered milk in the cabinet," I blurted with an irritable tone that purposely moved to a higher level.

"I hate the crap. I have to get everything around here,"

"Quit being a martyr. I'll go get you some." I pushed my chair away from the kitchen table.

"Don't do me any favors." She slammed the refrigerator door and stormed from the room.

Most of our tirades dissolved quite readily with promises of no repetitions. Our spats, however, were often renewed as well as our pledges of forgiveness.
Our desire for Clarissa continued, making it difficult to accept our lonely surroundings and share this life with our family and friends. Rita and I blamed each other for Clarissa's illness, stating to each other if only we did one thing and not the other, would our baby still be alive? We diverted to a stage of grief that felt like a noose around our necks that continued choking us on every passing day.

Rita, however, felt comfortable with the Lord in her periods of mourning. Every night before bedtime, she knelt at the edge of her bed with a Rosary draped around her clasped hands looking up at the Crucifix, nailed to the gray wall above the bed. I stopped praying months ago.

God didn't help us to keep Clarissa alive. Why did God make my daughter suffer and leave the people left behind with sorrow and pain?

"Come with me tonight," Rita said one morning during breakfast.

"Where?" I asked, crunching on a piece of toast.

 "Church."

  I snickered as I sipped my coffee. "No way, Jesus can't help me."
 
  "People are meeting in the basement of the church. They grieved as we do."

   I shook my head. "How does a bunch of depressed people like us give you and I comfort over Clarissa's death?"

 "But, our similarities will help all of us."

 "The only thing that helps me is a six-pack." I laughed.

 "Yeah, it may also hinder us, especially the quantity that you been drinking these days," she remarked sarcastically.

 I saw the frown between her eyes. It has been several days that a blanket of peace covered the warmth of our apartment. Still, I remained critical about talking to strangers about Clarissa, but if it kept the peace in the home, I agreed to go.

That evening, Rita and I descended the spiral stairwell to the lower level of St. Francis. We walked along the polished tile floor, observing the paintings of various saints that hung on the wall. At the juncture of the hallway was an ivory statue of St. Francis of Assisi, the saint who loved animals. A fountain of water surrounded the marble figure. Along the corridor, we heard singing in one room, banjo playing in another while the voices of teenagers engaged in still another room.

At the end of the hall, Rita and I stepped into a crowded room. A tall, lanky man with short red hair and a trimmed goatee greeted us at the door.

"John Tibbets," he said, shaking our hands. Then, he walked us to a welcoming table where some women shook our hands and gave us some pamphlets on grief, a subject that didn't rank too high my reading list.

 I later learned Mr. Tibbets lost his wife and two sons, ages six and eight, in a car accident caused by a drunken driver.

 After receiving the literature, John gave us a small smile and guided us to a circle of folding chairs in the center of the room. Young and older people occupied most of the seats.

 I remained frustrated about attending this meeting. Nobody could help me, least of all these people. We were pulled together by a treacherous storm, desperate to take that grieving pain away. All of us desperate to forget that sad day when our whole world turned bleak, and we fell into a dark abyss, never to recover.

After everyone introduced themselves, each person gave their reason for attendance. Some people loss their spouses, and others loss their siblings.

Seated next to Rita, and I, a young couple told of their twelve-year-old boy dying of leukemia. It was a dreadful evening. I saw tears roll down people's cheeks, listen to their sniffles and sighs, but there was one lady that compelled myself to withhold a smile.

She looked to be in her mid-seventies and began whimpering the words of her Benny, who died after eighteen years of beautiful memories.

"Benny was the best dog I ever had," she said.

By the tears sliding down the lady's cheeks, I realized the shattering pieces of the heart have no boundaries when the death of a loved one knocks at the door.

When it was my turn to tell my tragedy, I passed it off, Rita. No way would my talking about Clarissa ease my pain, and I certainly didn't want pity from strangers that would only add more tears to my sorrowful soul.

Rita made it through half the story then started choking on her words. I saw sad faces, watery eyes on a few women with hankies in their hands and making whimpering sounds.

My wife's eyes darted toward me tilting her head with a forced smile. It was her way for me to continue our daughter's brief stay on earth. Reluctantly, I nodded, and after taking a few deep swallows, I stood up.

"Clarissa suffered plenty in that last month. Her breathing was difficult. She could never hold the milk given to her, and only the plastic tubes that were connected to the needles in her arms gave her the nourishment to stay alive. She cried a lot, but Rita and I cried more and we still are."

 My legs became rubbery. The floor seemed to move from under me as I fell backward onto my chair, disrupting my dialogue. Maybe, it was the tears merging in my eyes or my throat becoming parched. I just couldn't speak more about Clarissa tonight, perhaps never.

The session ended. I found relief like taking a cold shower after a five-mile run in the hot sun. Rita and I said our farewells, and I hoped this was my last visit.

"Mr. and Mrs. Russo would like to join us at Molly's?" the young man said. His name was Bill Parker, who had a muscular frame with curly blond hair and a southern accent. He and his wife, Jill, sat next to us during the meeting. ''Most of us go there for coffee and sweets, and of course, more chit-chat." He laughed.

 I just wanted to go home and drink myself to sleep. I didn't care to listen to any more sad stories. I started to reply by making an excuse for retiring early because of my job. Rita, however, interrupted and accepted his invitation.

"That's wonderful!" Jill exclaimed. "It will give us the chance to get better acquainted."

  I forced a smile, telling Jill that it was a marvelous suggestion.

 Molly's was a quaint restaurant, crowded with people of various ages. A young, slender woman with an infectious smile, dressed in a black dress, greeted us at the door and escorted the group to a long table so we could sit together.

 Soft instrumental music of the Beatles' Hey Jude wafted from the small round dark holes in the ceiling adjacent to the recessed lighting.
Most of the group's chatter was trivial conversations of everyday news. No one mentioned their tragedies. It seemed like a different world as if their past never existed. Too me, I couldn't do it. I couldn't escape the images of my Clarissa, lying in her crib, looking helpless as the numbness surge within me, thinking of my daughter in the cold ground.

 As days and weeks past, the gray cloud that loomed over my head became thinner and thinner. I became involved in monthly church meetings. I discovered discussing the steps of grief would slowly relieve the burden of sorrow and anger. Still, the pain existed. We tried hiding the horrendous tragedy of our lives, wishing it was a bad dream. But, the nightmare would stay in our lives forever.

I dreamt quite often of Clarissa growing into a beautiful woman, the dreams of her graduating from college and walking with her down the aisle on her wedding day. They were beautiful visions that offered me solace when the pains of sorrow grew deep.

One night, Rita and I were having dinner with the Parkers when they offered a suggestion.

"How would you like to come with us to Abe's kitchen this Saturday?" Bill asked, scooping up a spoonful of peas then stuffing them in his mouth.

"What's that?" I said, dipping my spoon into my chicken soup.

"We help feed the homeless," Jill interjected. "Abe Coma owns the restaurant, and every Saturday morning, he closes the place until noon."

"He's always short on volunteers," Bill added.

 I kept silent while crunching on a cracker. I expected Rita to volunteer us, but she remained quiet while spreading a chunk of butter on her baked potato.

 I continued to be doubtful about undertaking any outside projects with the group. My weekends were spent around the house, looking at old photo albums, or sitting in front of the window, watching the neighborhood kids play. Clarissa would have been their age. But Bill, the car salesman that he was, finally sold Rita and me that helping others may do a whirlwind of good for our benefit. Hogwash. Still, I went along for the ride.

For those few hours at the kitchen, I saw smiles on ruddy faces while I plop a big serving of pork n beans into plastic trays. I saw spirits lifting, not only of the homeless but mine as well.

Still, the gloom persisted. The group called it a 'burst of grief.' It usually happened when I saw a baby in their father's arms, or I listened to a song that I once sang to Clarissa. Occasionally, that moment passed, only to relive another day.

Rita stayed pious. She went to church daily, prayed continuously in her room, gave alms to others, and continued helping at Abe's Kitchen. Rita even started a support group for unwed mothers. She enjoyed sharing her time with others, a period where her heartache and sorrow slipped away.

I saw Rita cast in a new light, a fascinating light, one that shined so brightly. I denied her idyllic transformation at the beginning, her pleasant manners of sharing her life with others. I felt ashamed, not of her, but me, selflessly destroying my gift of life, but through the group and helping at Abe's Kitchen, I began sharing my gift of life with others, especially with my wife.

Our relationship was nurtured as the seasons past. We walked in the park, held hands at the movies. On many summer nights, Rita and I curled up on a lounge chair with my arm around her shoulders as her head rested on my chest. We looked at the twinkling stars against the dark sky, and one star would shine more than all the rest that was my Clarissa, telling me all her pain had gone away, and no more tears dampened her cheeks.

I returned to the church. Rita directed me towards that path after much deliberation. I prayed more, asking God for my forgiveness for my bitterness of Him taking away Clarissa. I knew He listened to my prayers, but His answers were not always mine. I now wanted God to be the center of my being. I started attending mass daily with my wife. We said evening prayers and joined a Bible-study. The Lord, through others around me, guided me down a different road without Clarissa, a path to tranquility.

Rita and I began a new journey, full of smiles, laughter, hugs, and kisses. We even treaded along avenues of intimacy, something we lost during our time of grief.

 One day while at work, I received a phone call from Rita.

 "Come to the doctor's office," she said.

  "What's wrong?" I gasped. My heart fluttered like a trapped bat.

   "I'll tell you when you arrive. I have to go. The doctor is here."

   I wanted more information, but she quickly hung up.

 â?? Could she have been in a car accident or have fallen at work?

   I told my manager, stepped into my car, and sped from the parking lot, hearing the sound of screeching tires while my hands tightly grasped the steering wheel.
 
The beats of my heart escalated like someone pounding on a drum. I started coming to my senses. Rita spoke in a moderate, perky tone. I don't believe she experienced any pain, and she did tell me not to worry. Perhaps, she had a small injury. I needed to calm down.

I slowly eased up on the gas pedal and loosened my grip on the steering wheel. Gradually, my stomach muscles unraveled, and my heart started playing a softer beat.

After parking the car, I hurried towards the doctor's office and pushed my way through the revolving glass door.

"What room is Mrs. Russo in?" I asked the young receptionist. "I'm her husband."

"Room C." She smiled.

I rushed down the corridor and opened the door to room C. I saw Rita sitting up on a gurney. She wore a blue paper gown and had an infectious smile, bright enough that it could have lighted Yankee Stadium.

"I'm PREGNANT!" She held her arms open.

   The adrenalin raced through my body. I fell as though I had just scratched of the numbers of a million-dollar lottery ticket, then realizing the gift I was about to receive was worth much more.

   I ran to Rita. We wrapped our arms around each other with our lips pressed together, choking back blissful tears. However, our moments of ecstasy were interrupted.

   "I see Rita told you the news." Dr. Barron laughed.

   He was a middle-aged man with a crop of salt and pepper hair. Dr. Barron has always been Rita's obstetrician, a deeply compassionate man who remained at our side during Clarissa's illness.

     "I'll have to bring the crib up from the basement." I smiled at Rita, gently squeezing her hand.

     "According to my stethoscope, you will need more than just one."

      A joyful mist clouded my eyes. The lump lodged in my throat, making it difficult to speak, but it mattered less as I pursed my lips into a smile and touched the soft hands of the woman I love.

      Three years had passed since the death of Clarissa. Rita was in her sixth month of pregnancy. Happy as I was, there were many dark days and often, tears that never ceased. Rita and I continued going to meetings and helped those that lost a loved one. On Saturdays, we helped at Abe's Kitchen to further ease the pain that lingers inside us.

     One night I went to Clarissa's room. I had a burst of grief when I walked to the window. I saw a galaxy of stars, and that one star outshining them all. I knew it was Clarissa, my shining star that would be glowing in my heart forever.