About five years ago, I lost one of the most influential and loving figures in my life. My Grandmother. Everyone has a grandmother, but we all can't be so blessed to have an Italian grandmother. An Italian grandmother is unlike any other grandmother. If you are lucky enough to be Italian, you will understand when I recognize that an Italian grandmother is a mother, a care-giver, a listener, a beholder of delicious foods, and the only person capable of getting away with mercilessly harassing your Italian parents. An Italian grandmother has the ability to put together an eight course meal in less than a half hour, can throw an inanimate object at your head with the accuracy of a major league baseball pitcher, and can guilt her children and grandchildren into doing most anything just short of murder with uttering only a few simple words.

My grandmother made me wash my hands twice when I got home from Catholic school everyday. Now, as a teacher, I still wash my hands twice everyday when I get home from school. She peeled my oranges, grapefruits, and pistachios. To this day, I don’t like to peel my own fruit. She taught me how to play solitaire and any random card game she made up on the spot. Every time I even see a deck of cards, I can hear her words “don’t cheat, Amy!” echoing in between my ears. She would secretly give me the first meat ball from a fresh pot of sauce long before dinner was served. I would take off with a sauce and parmesan cheese smothered meatball on the end of a fork, hording it as I carried it like a trophy of honor and excellence. I still steal the first meatball. I still horde it and run away after I steal it.

As a child, I always had a hard time sleeping. My Nona and I shared a very small, very pink bedroom. Some nights I would chew Nona’s ear off because there was simply, “no sleep in my eyes.” This is when Nona gave me her greatest gift. In part to teach me life-lessons, in part because they needed to be told, and mostly to shut me up, my Nona gave me the gift of stories. She told me stories about life, children, family, jokes, money, holidays, faith, but most importantly- Love. I would interrupt her to ask dozens of questions. She would silence me with a long, thin finger pressed to her lips. It was in this silence that I would warmly slip into slumber while cradled in her words and arms.

To this day, her stories echo in the vault of my mind. They have been the stories that I live by. These are the stories that have helped to pave or unpave the different paths my life has taken thus far. Most people let their conscience be their guide. My Nona is my guide.

My Nona lived a long life. She said it was because she only surrounded her heart with good people, ate good food everyday, prayed every night, and believed “God doesn’t want me yet.” After 4 children, 13 grandchildren, and 2 great grandchildren and ninety- three long and enriched years of life, my Nona began to slip away from me. Her departure from this mortal earth was quick and fairly painless. Before she finally took to heaven, she told me her shortest but paramount story.

She caressed my arms with light fingertips to calm me. To this day, I catch myself running my fingers over my own arms when I am inconsolable.

Between whispers and struggled breaths, her words crept into my ears as I lay beside her in that stark hospital bed. Her words are engraved upon my heart.

“I have told you so much, Bubedu. I have to tell you what you are meant to have, what you deserve. Find it, Amy, and it will find you. Love will find you. Not just any love, real love. The kind of love that is whole- hearted, un-compromising, and unconditional will find you. Forgiving and deep; that is the love that will find you. Love that shines pure and true even in the darkest of hours will find you. The love that makes you cry and laugh at the same time will find you. The love that makes you whole inside and out will find you. This love will find you, Amy.”

These words engraved their promises onto my then fragile heart. I felt my hope and faith renew and surge from the depths of my being. I felt my strength refurbish the meek and challenged spaces in my then distressed soul. I grasped her final lesson and last story as I infused it within the caverns and walls of my heart. Nona-Love.

I wrapped my eyelashes around tears as I pressed my cheek into the warm nape of her neck one last time. I had no questions or interruptions. “I love you, Nona” were the only small words I could manage past my tongue.

Your simple words have been and always will be my inspiration and guide for my whole life through.

Thank you, Nona.

Ti Amo

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