Gaetano Di Falco's beautiful story

Azzuri eyes, Azzuri skies

Grandparents are revered in most cultural backgrounds; this is particularly true in my Italian-Canadian upbringing. I have met my paternal nonna only. So I can merely speak of this fable-like experience. For my nonna was treated like royalty, our own matriarchal queen. We, the grandchildren, were precious rings on her trembling, yet comforting fingers. Rewind your childhood’s film without it entangling on your memory reel. Now, can you see when your parents probably dragged you to visit la nonna? It was on a bright, Sunday afternoon. You could have been playing at the park—matter-of-fact, you probably wished you were—but you knew it would be magical to see your nonna. My nonna allowed me to plunge into the depth of my childhood. I was spoiled! When my parents reprimanded me, nonna always came to my rescue. A slow, staccato laugh would conceal her order: “Ma lasciato gioca, è un bambino”. Who dared not to oblige to her wish? A wise, crooked smile would magnify her wrinkles.

My nonna typically took an afternoon nap when babysitting me. Alas, I was afraid never to hear her euphonious snore again. Meticulously, I kept pace, counting the lapse of time between each breath. Sometimes, I’d play the apprentice doctor, pressing my ear near nonna’s vibrating lips. This time, however, her gentle snore was seized by the absolute silence: death. There she lay in bed, a sacred statue. A thin, white blanket covered her; her arms were crossed over her chest. Earth would become her permanent blanket hereafter. A vivid image crawled out of my subconscious: a little child playing guardian angel. Wake up, nonna…Wake up!

Our ancestors came to Canada after sowing their values in Italian soil. Italy fueled my nonna’s love, sense of life and character. Italy was all she knew—the scars of war, bleak times and political instability. Suddenly, the umbilical cord binding her to her mother country was cut off. Only her family would heal my nonna’s wounds. Our ancestors physically divorced Italy, but they never parted in their hearts. Their lives were left behind, sailing across the sea, seeking a better life. An invisible, nostalgic cloud still hovers over them. Notable is the fact that my nonna helped carve the identity of Italian immigrants. Who could not get along with my jovial nonna, dressed in black, wiping her forehead with a flowery handkerchief? Can you hear it? I hear a chorus of all nonnas, speaking harmoniously, half in their Italian dialect, half in their broken English and French; their words and hands gesture dancing in harmony, as though “speaking” the tarantella.

My stomach roaring, I’d sprint home from school. My nonna and mother warm smiles and a hearty meal greeted me. I devoured my food, barely chewing it. They laughed, as I’d lick the tomato sauce moustache contouring my lips. My eyes glued to the TV set, I created my own version of the Holy Trinity: nonna, mamma and the… Flintstones. My belly was full—yaba daba doo! Lunchtime was over; I had to rush back to school. Outside, the winds were crisp. Both would slip a hat on my dishevelled hair and wrap a thick scarf around my neck, concealing my face—as a result, I was a short, slightly chubby, Italian mummy. Kissing them goodbye, I sensed their affection, despite the strands of wool in my mouth

Furthermore, the hospital was silent, almost desolate. It was during the infamous ice storm in 1999. My nonna was recovering in her room. She had aged overnight. Pearls of tears trickled from her icy, azzuri eyes. But they were warm tears, unlike the drops that had frosted our streets. In spite of her age and condition, she was quite lucid. A bionic nonna! Consequently, she wore her ‘storyteller’ mask. She recited chapters of her life, family tales, and many stories from the old country—some true, others apocryphal—hence reviving the curious child within me. In the end, a fragmented lifetime was recited in five hours...a lifetime of mementoes for me.

Today, my espresso is bitter. My nonna had a habit of pouring sugar yet never stirring it. She blamed it on diabetes and always shrugged it off. My nonna gulped her coffee up to when the sugar brushed her lips. Then, the cup belonged to me. The last coffee drop and sugar created a creamy blend. I’d scoop the treat with a spoon and relished my nonna’s treat. My espresso was so sweet then… Now, her mouth is wide opened from her final gulp of life, not coffee. Her skin is cold, pale and criss-crossed by motionless wrinkles. Today, May 16, 2003—the sky is a prodigious, azzuro umbrella. A radiant sunshine... what a stunning day! Death, though, is like a chained ball on one’s wings.

Sleep well, nonna.