When the cicadas started to sing in the trees and the hot sun made the pavement burn on bare feet, I knew it was time to visit Nonna.
We loaded into the van and drove for hours, maybe days. I watched the fields and signs sweep past and thought about what we’d do at her house, maybe pick vegetables from her garden or make spaghetti. I hoped she’d make spaghetti. I’d waited all year for a bowl.
When we arrived, the windows of the house were open. I could hear her laughter outside and smell onion and garlic in the air.
Her greeting was always the same: “Come here and give your Nonna a kiss.” I tried to miss her lips because they were slobbery, but she pulled me in anyway, pressing her cheek to mine. “You know your Nonna loves you.”
Before supper, we went to the garden to pick basil for the salad. Her garden was the size of my whole yard at home. She held out a cucumber and told me to try it. It tasted like dirt.
“Let’s go inside and take a look at the sauce.” she said. It was bubbling and popping on the stove. I stood on my tiptoes to take a peek. Nonna stuck a noodle on her head and made a goofy face.
The first bite was exactly as I remembered — sweet and rich and smooth as velvet. I finished a whole bowl and asked for seconds.
After dinner, we went to the bedroom and looked at old photos. Nonna talked about her family and how they moved from Sicily. She told me how much she missed her aunts, uncles, and cousins. All the pictures were gray and everyone looked angry — especially Nanu, with sweat on his chest and arms, hot and frowning. “Back then it took time to make a photo,” Nonna said. “It’s harder to see how people really feel now.”
“You know,” she said, “God can always tell how we feel.” She held her rosarie to her heart and smiled. “If you ever want to talk, He’ll listen.”
That night we all camped. We put the radio on a stump, played music, and told ghost stories. I wondered if Nanu was watching.
We left early the next morning. I smiled and waved goodbye to Nonna through the back window. She cupped her fingers into a heart shape and then looked at me through her hands.
When summer came again and the cicadas sang, we went for another visit. The drive was quick and quiet this time. The clouds were low and the trees sagged with rain.
At Nonna’s house, the blinds were drawn. There was no laughter outside, no sauce to smell. Inside on the kitchen table was a photo of her, smiling. The picture made her seem small and ordinary.
Standing next to her grave, I wondered why she was gone. All I wanted was a dirty cucumber and a slobbery kiss. I picked up her rosarie and asked God if he could please bring her back. I remembered what she said — that God knows how we feel — and I imagined we were all part of a very long photograph he was taking.
As we left the next morning, I looked once more at her garden, the small white house, the window of her bedroom. Her memory fresh in my mind, I held up my fingers and snapped a picture.
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This is a piece to a children’s story I wrote, as a way of saying goodbye to my great grandmother from Sicily.
Her laughter, spaghetti and the way she loved has left an impact.
arrivederci Nonna, until we meet again.
