Thursday, January 9, 2025
So far January has seen much sadness.
We have seen a former American president — much maligned when in office but praised universally in the forty-plus years since — lying in state in the Rotunda, beneath the dome of the United States Capitol, surrounded by a large and visibly mournful family; with representatives of the military, and, without irony, almost all of the Washington power brokers, politicians, and elites.
Three thousand miles away, wind-driven wildfires are raging through neighborhoods outside of downtown Los Angeles, forcing at least 100,000 people to evacuate their homes and abandon all their worldly possessions.
But nearer to home, and sadder for me, our dear friend Sal Aquila has died far too soon.
My mind keeps going back to Sal.
Just the other night, I went upstairs with all these things on my tired mind just before midnight, and I lay there, trying to get warm — and as Sal might say, get ‘comfortable’ enough to drift off to sleep.
As my eyes finally started to close, with sleepiness washing over me, suddenly I saw Sal Aquila. As real as anything. Sitting right there on the sea chest near to the edge of my bed.
His midnight appearance startled me and I sat bolt upright.
It was the Sal Aquila of twenty-five years ago, and he had come to visit me.
He looked great.
He had a headful of thick brown hair, his mustache was dark, his eyes were twinkling mischievously, and he was smiling openly. Warmly.
Uncharacteristically, Sal wore a red golf shirt, whose bright color sort of enveloped him, and his normally olive-tan complexion reflected a rosy hue. He sort of glowed.
He looked hale, and healthy, and happy.
I was instantly overcome with emotion. When I recovered sufficiently enough to speak I told him how sad I have been since he left us.
Sal leaned in and hugged me gently and quietly said:
‘It’s okay. It’s alright. Everything is fine.’
And then, just as suddenly, Sal was gone and I tearfully returned to my slumber.
But Sal is not gone.
I will remember Sal Aquila always.
