Marcel

I just learned that the Italian part of me died this morning.

No, Calabria didn't blow up. Naples is still thriving. And, yes, I still love pasta and vespas and golden afternoon light cast on red geranium-lined allies falling on cobblestone.

My grandfather died. 92 years old. A beautiful man.

He had the softest shirts and awkward hugs that always let me know how much he cared and was scared to. His hands were worn with years of calculating numbers and signing papers and woodworking and crossword-puzzling. He loved simple, clean lines and made an art out of communicating quiet order. Unlike stereotypical Italian men, my grandfather was gentle, reserved, and his words, though not many, were always well thought out and intentionally spoken. He had a lot of steady wisdom to offer his crazy, free-spirited family and I know that, had we listened well, we would have probably saved ourselves from a lot of unnecessary trial. I know he passionately, in his own grandpa way, wanted us to know that what we perceived to be his critical nature was really his attempt to save us and love us. I got it much later on. I think we all, more or less, did. He was very patient.

I loved my grandpa though I didn't always understand him. I loved him even though I felt like I was strange to him at times. He was not a storyteller, leaving that to my vivacious Mayrette, so it wasn't until I began to ask questions--until my own self was ready to recede into the background a bit-- that I learned a little about who this mystery man was; about who my ancestors were. I wish I'd written it all down. The bits I remember are like loose diamonds ready to be cast into various metals, waiting to become precious adornment. They sit in my mind, beautiful, but not completely connected. A fire in Romania, refugees to Italy, a jeweler, an artist, cousins marrying, Calabria, Naples, immigration to America, born in New Jersey, domineering great grandmother, passive great grandfather who took his own life, grand aunt and uncles I never met. He owned a restaurant where he met my grandmother. He worked for Hughes Helicopters and eventually worked his way up to Vice President. He was smart, diligent, loyal, faithful. Three immensely creative and passionate children. Grandma got sick and he took care of her until she died. He married her lovely younger sister not much later. I was 4 or 5. He had 4 grandkids, visiting several times a year, and 6 great grandkids. He made the best pesto in the universe. The middle finger on one of his hands was slightly different than the rest and I loved looking at it because it meant: him. I loved his firm grandpa kisses and his thick white wavy hair and his olive skin and deep set eyes and his scent-- I've only smelled it one other time in my life and it was in the last year, somewhere in the world and the minute I caught it, I cried with longing to hug my grandpa, knowing even then I probably never would again because I live across the world and he was sick and I couldn't visit.
The last time I saw him was right after he had a stroke over a year ago. We visited him at this rehabilitation place and he couldn't talk coherently, but I held his hand and he told me I was a wonderful person and that it was good to see me and I thanked him for everything and we looked each other in the eyes knowing it would be the last time. I heard his heart agree to say goodbye in love. Many times after that as I thought about him and prayed for him, I wanted to deny what I knew to be true that day. It really was the last time I'd see him on this earth.
But I had a dream. Many years ago now. I had a dream that I saw him in Heaven. So I know he is there. I will hug him again and his smell will be wonderful and it will be eternal and he will get to tell me about all kinds of things and I will know him again, but better.

Marcel Francis Gerardis. It is so good to be a part of you.