Caro Zio Gianni

     With Valentine’s Day stowed away, along with the plethora of other holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, diverse celebrations, seasons, and would be adventures, until a certain normalcy returns, I gently allow my thoughts to roam.  Today they encircle the warm memories of my very favorite uncle and his sad passing in May.  My journal entry that day:  May 12, 2020:

“My sweet Zio Gianni has died, and I do believe that our psyches were intertwined around the time of his death.  I awoke around 2 am with such a strong feeling of complete angst and sadness, thinking of him because he had been ill.  I was itchy all over and uneasy, on the verge of tears.  A foreboding invaded my whole being, and nothing could settle me down until complete exhaustion took me in, around 4 am.

         I was then awakened the next morning by a What’s App message from my cousin, Carla, informing me that our beloved Zio had passed away – around noon in Italy – which would have made it 4 am my time – the exact hour when I was able to go back to sleep.

         Might my unmistakable connection to Zio Gianni have been strong enough for me to feel his departure? Maybe he was saying goodbye – presumptuous, I know, but oh, so comforting. “

         Separated by a continent and an ocean from him most of my life, I spent, in the grand scheme of things, little time with him. Yet, my bond with him was always strong and very deeply felt.  He was such a jubilant man with a good heart and a lovely, infectious laugh.  He was “di compagnia,” and equipped with a “spirito magnifico,” a male version of my mother, his sister!! I love to muster up and remember his friendly, comforting smile, and hear his ranting and raving about this and that along with his perfunctory, “ma, molla,” (oh, come on!) shouted throughout each and every discussion.

         We shared a love of wine! Oh, how I loved drinking a glass of wine with my uncle, and visiting his well stocked cantina, where I had the task of choosing how many bottles of his homemade wine would accompany the delicious meals created by my aunt.

     A favorite memory pops up, and makes me chuckle once again. While visiting Italy with my family in 2001 he came by to pick me up for “church,” and to spend some quality uncle/ niece time with me. I realized pretty quickly that this was not where we were headed, but rather to his favorite morning bar/café.  I did pose the question as to where we were going. His response was accompanied by the mischievous twinkle in his eyes and he smiled, “Si, la mia chiesa .”  (Yes, my church.) Once we arrived at our destination we had a sweet and tasty concoction of Marsala and white wine, maybe Prosecco, the perfect morning drink, according to him, all the while chatting with so many “frends,” a word he often used, from his rudimentary and unique knowledge and pronunciation of the English Language.

         My last two visits occurred in 2013 and 2019. He never seemed to age and was so energetic, always in shorts, on a bike, his main form of transportation.  In the Fall of 2013 I headed to London to visit family, and flew to Italy for 10 days, staying with my uncle and aunt in the ancestral house where my mother and her siblings were born and raised, this now being his getaway in the country during the warmer months, where over a century of living had taken place.  As was true with my mom, he also was a gifted and captivating storyteller, and from the tales he spun I learned so much more about the escapades of my mother, who had passed away in 2001. I relished these stories so much as they also included tales of my nonni, aunts, uncles, cousins, and my beloved father, who had passed away in the 90’s.  Having retired the previous June, I was trepidatiously finding my way in the next unknown section of my life, without my parents, and being here with him helped center me and remind me of where I came from, that all the important people of my past were always present, spiritually, if not physically.  

Another humorous memory emerges during this time and deals with my departure back to England.  On the day that I was to leave, he insisted that we had enough time to stop to have coffee before proceeding to the airport.  I didn’t feel that we did, but I relented, as he seemed so intent.  Once the coffee was consumed we got back in the car, which now would not start, so we were given a push from nearby workmen.  Relieved, we were back on the road and still had enough time.  A little while later though the car simply shut off, and he veered it off to the side of the road.  At this point I was resigned to the fact that I would miss this flight, but this was not to be.  He jumped out of the car, and started flagging people down, talking to the drivers, until one in particular nodded his head, and he motioned to me to bring my suitcase here.  Off I went to the airport, about twenty more minutes away with a complete stranger. I made it there safely, just in the nick of time!! My first lesson regarding retirement emerged and gave me courage – things eventually work out, and in the meantime, enjoy the adventure.

In 2019 I ventured back to Italy after the untimely death of my sister to take care of some family property, and organize a memorial in her honor in the church where we were all baptized. Since it was February and cold, I stayed with my aunt and uncle in their apartment in the nearby city of Borgo Val di Taro. He had been hospitalized for an intestinal blockage a few months earlier, but his demeanor belied any traces of illness or physical setbacks, and again, he seemed unchanged.  The apartment was my home base as I connected with other cousins and friends, and dealt with the business at hand. Each day I would venture out twice a day to a café to make use of the WIFI he did not have, but each evening we sat and ate dinner together, laughing, joking, watching Italian game shows and shouting at the television, and of course drinking his special wine. In the midst of it all, he spun more tales of the past and listened intently as I told stories of my own life in the US. He was always “present,” truly hearing all that I was saying.  When the day came to leave, he drove me to the nearby train station, and as always we had a coffee before I left.  Since I did not want a repeat of my last experience with “having enough time,” I chose to wait near the track, and since it was bitingly cold, we said our goodbyes – a tight hug, a double cheeked kiss, and one last wave as he drove away, and I did not turn around until I could no longer see him.   I relive this moment over and over, seeing him and feeling all that made him so very special – his gentleness, his positive outlook, his infectious energy, his kind smile and melodic laugh, and his unconditional love for me.

I did speak with him on Face time after I got back home.  This always made me chuckle because he would not hold the phone appropriately so that all I could see for most of the conversation was his forehead, even after numerous reminders on my part.  No matter, because his voice was loud, clear, loving, and always comforting. I have saved a recording of his voice, as he called and left a message once, and at the end of the call, he simply says that he’ll call another time, and that he’s feeling good, and this is where I leave it when I think of him, that he’s feeling good.  What is most unmistakable though is that I deeply feel his absence in this world, in spite of the fact that in the grand scheme of things I did not spend a lot of time with him. I miss him as much as I miss my own parents, and his legacy as well is a pretty powerful one, one that is palpable to me in this world, of all that he was with his magnanimous spirit, and my memories of him make my heart and soul smile.

Zio Gianni did not dispense advice, but once during a rather difficult time in my life I called him, and as always, he listened intently.  He did not interrupt, or try to talk me out of my feelings, or diminish them.  His words were few but monumental – “Speranza – bisogna sempre avere speranza.  Se non c’e speranza, non c’e niente.” (Hope – you have to always have hope.  If there is no hope, there is nothing. )

Writing this blog was difficult, as I was forced to think of him and his absence, and embrace of course the finality of his physical existence. But, my life has been incredibly enriched because he was in it, and I am reminded and comforted by the words of Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and John Kessler:

         “ The reality is that you will grieve forever.  You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it.  You will heal and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered.  You will be whole again but, but you will never be the same.  Nor should you be the same, nor would you want to.”