Last week, Yolanda, some of us sat at your bedside telling the story of how you met Leonardo. As a young soldier, he (and his regiment) stopped in your village to rest. With your boundless generosity, you served him food through the opening of a tent and he fell in love with your hands, those lovely hands he later recognized at a dance. I will also remember your hands, Yolanda. To me they represent not only your gift as an artist, sewing exquisite dresses for the elegant ladies of San Francisco. But they embody the act of giving - the kindness and warmth you shared with us all. Your gentle spirit kept you beautiful even more than your lipstick, Yolanda. When we spoke of the past, there was a hint of nostalgia for the times filled with music, parties, and the people you loved. So now when I miss you, I think of you reunited with your mother, father, brothers, and your strikingly handsome husband. In the last days, I asked if you remembered dancing (Italian music playing softly in the background), and with eyes closed you struggled to answer, "ho ballato tanto." So I don't think of you anymore in your wheelchair. Now I rejoice in the thought of you dancing light on your feet, holding hands with Leonardo once more.